GIFT  OF 


A    MAN    OF    GENIUS 


By  the  Same  Author 


WIDDICOMBE 

THE  WINGLESS  VICTORY 


A  MAN  OF  GENIUS 

A    STORY     OF     THE 
J  U  D  G  M  K  N  r    OF    PARIS 


BV 

M.  P.  WILLCOCKS 


We  are  children  of  splendour  and  flame, 

Of  shuddering,  also,  and  tears. 
Magnificent  out  of  the  dust  we  came, 

And  abject  from  the  Spheres." 

William  Watson 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN   LANE  COMPANY.  MCMVIII 
LONDON:    JOHN    LANE,    THE    BODLEY    HEAD 


Copyright,    1908, 
By  John  Lane  Company 


TO 

JOHN    LANE 

WHO  FIRST  TAUGHT 
ME  TO  KNOW  AND  TO 
LOVE  HIS  OWN  WILD 
CORNER     OF      DEVON 


108751 


CONTENTS 


I. 

The  Wind  Among  the  Barley 

rAOi 
9 

II. 

Little  Egypt       .... 

24 

III. 

Armiger 

•     37 

IV. 

Hesperus    ..... 

45 

V. 

The  King  of  Shadows 

76 

VI. 

The  Law  of  Life 

95 

VII. 

The  Wandering  Gleam 

114 

VIII. 

The  Strength  of  the  Hills 

129 

IX. 

The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows 

141 

X. 

The  Leaping  Flame     . 

159 

XI. 

The  Prayer  of  Women 

171 

XII. 

A  Strong  Man  Armed 

187 

XIII. 

The  Bitter  Chalice     . 

204 

XIV. 

The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx    . 

230 

XV. 

The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead  . 

.  248 

XVI. 

The  Cradle  of  a  Child 

26s 

XVII. 

The  Mystery  Play 

278 

XVIII. 

The  Wings  of  the  Wind 

•   293 

XIX. 

The  Master  Builders 

308 

XX. 

The  Judgment  of  Paris 

315 

XXI. 

The  Wings  of  Peace 

327 

Contents 

CHAPTER 

XXII.  The  Cosmic  Dance     . 

XXIII.  One  Way  of  Love 

XXIV.  The  Flight  of  a  Seamew    . 

XXV.  The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods 

XXVI.  The  Gates  of  Dawn  . 

XXVII.  Constantine's  Banner 

XXVIII;  The  Clear  Shining  of  a  Star     . 


PAGE 

347 
356 
368 

379 
398 
404 


A    MAN    OF    GENIUS 


A  MAN  OF  GENIUS 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  WIND  AMONG  THE  BARLEY 


BY  the  table  stood  a  man  in  a  sailor's  jersey,  wearing  in 
his  ears  the  thin  rings  of  gold  that  seamen  suppose  to 
be  good  for  the  eyes.  From  below  the  house  came  the 
myriad  voices  of  a  tide  that  beats  against  a  rock-bound 
coast;  the  hiss  of  spray  that  breaks  on  jagged  points,  the 
roar  of  pebbles  as  a  wave  recedes,  the  stifled  boom  of 
imprisoned  waters  that  churn  the  fretted  crannies  of  the 
cliff.  In  the  grip  of  the  wind-flaws  the  timbers  of  the 
house  were  straining,  as  though  they  were  the  sides  of  a 
storm-tossed  vessel,  and  through  the  room  shone  a  diffused 
pallor  of  steel-grey  light,  like  the  reflection  from  a  vast 
mirror.  It  was,  in  truth,  the  storm-light  reflected  from  the 
greatest  mirror  in  the  world,  the  sea. 

In  the  light  of  it  John  Darracott  stood  looking  down  at 
a  small  box,  roughly  embossed  in  a  design  of  ivy  leaves. 
His  jet-black  hair  and  beard  were  both  now  faintly  threaded 
with  silver,  and  his  quiet  eyes,  set  deep  in  a  swarthy  face, 
were  dusky,  like  the  dark  shadows  on  a  still  pool.  Through 
his  great  frame  the  good  blood  circled  steadily  with  the  tide 
of  perfect  health,  for  he  had  breathed  little  but  the  outdoor 
air  all  his  life.     The  massive  outline  of  his  rough-hewn 

9 


lo  A  Man  of  Genius 

head,  the  great  jaws  that  cleft,  ridge-like,  round  his  cheeks, 
all  bore  the  same  expression  of  quiet  tenacity.  Yet  the 
firm  lips  could  soften  into  kindly  lines.  They  were  so 
softened  now,  as  he  glanced  from  the  box  to  the  sea,  his 
work-broadened  hands  touching  the  toy  he  had  made  as 
gently  as  he  would  have  touched  the  woman  for  whom  it 
was  meant. 

The  rising  storm  outside,  the  five  hours'  watch  that 
awaited  him,  the  familiar  outlines  of  his  room,  had  faded  in 
the  inner  visions  of  the  happiness  that  he  hoped  was 
approaching.  Very  simple  visions  they  were,  for  it  was 
mainly  a  picture  of  an  imaginary  corner-cupboard  that 
kindled  his  eyes  into  flame,  a  fancy  of  all  the  household  con- 
veniences he  would  put  up  in  this  room,  if  he  ever  brought 
home  to  it  the  occupant  who  already  flitted  there  before  his 
mind's  eye.  The  thought  of  his  own  tall  stature  beside  the 
figure  of  this  small  person  puckered  his  forehead  anxiously, 
as  he  calculated  the  height  at  which  he  must  fix  cupboards 
and  dressers  so  that  she  should  not  strain  herself  in  reach- 
ing up  to  them. 

The  low-ceiled  room,  with  its  bare  rafters  and  clean- 
scrubbed  floor,  was  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship  kept  sweet  with 
the  nicety  of  a  sailor's  hands.  A  wreck-wood  fire  burnt  in 
an  old  hobbed  grate,  and  one  large  window,  curved  like 
the  port-hole  of  an  ancient  galleon,  looked  out  to  sea. 
Pinned  to  the  wall  were  pictures  of  birds  cut  from  illus- 
trated papers,  interspersed  with  rough  daubs  of  fishes, 
painted  in  the  vivid  colours  of  fish  just  taken  from  the 
water.  In  one  corner  there  was  also  a  menagerie  of  sick 
beasts,  a  rabbit-hutch,  and  a  cage  or  two,  for  John  Darra- 
cott  had  a  fine  skill  in  mending  the  creatures  that  had  come 
to  grief  in  the  battle  of  life;  at  one  time  it  would  be  a  bird 
with  a  broken  wing  that  inhabited  a  cage  until  it  could  fly 
again,  at  another,  a  rabbit  with  its  leg  in  splints. 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley  i  i 

At  last  the  dreamer  tore  himself  from  his  visions,  and, 
slipping  the  box  into  his  trouser  pocket,  opened  the  house 
door  and  stepped  out  into  the  roar  of  sea  and  wind.  On  a 
long  ledge  of  rock  crouched  a  double  row  of  slated,  weather- 
beaten  houses,  from  which  rose  contorted  circles  of  chimney 
smoke  that  eddied  over  the  boiling  cauldron  of  maddened 
waters  that  surged  just  below.  Over  the  edge  of  the  grassy 
escarpment  above  this  human  eyry,  five  grey  donkeys 
peered  with  the  enquiring  faces  of  abstracted  curiosity. 
Hartland  Quay,  so  called  because  it  had  once  been  a  coal 
wharf,  was  now  half  hotel  and  half  farm,  and  Darracott  the 
sole  labourer  employed  on  it,  for  the  farm,  being  composed 
chiefly  of  clifif-pastures,  required  but  little  labour. 

''You'll  mind  and  be  back  in  time,  Darracott,"  called  a 
voice  from  the  doorway  of  the  main  building  as  he  passed, 
"for  it's  going  to  be  a  dirty  night,  by  the  look  of  it." 

"Ay,  sir,"  he  answered,  as  he  began  to  ascend  the  wind- 
ing cliff  path,  "I'll  be  sure  to  be  back  'gainst  'tis  dark. 
'Tis  looking  up  ugly  and  no  mistake." 

Darracott  was  one  of  the  nineteen  men  employed  by  the 
local  agent  for  the  Board  of  Trade  to  work  the  rocket 
apparatus  at  Hartland  Quay,  and  to-night  it  fell  to  his  turn 
to  watch  the  sea  for  the  five  hours  specified  in  the  regula- 
tions in  case  of  stormy  or  foggy  weather.  For  since  Hartland 
Point  was  a  war  signal  station  the  coastguard  were  not  re- 
quired to  patrol  the  coast,  but  merely  to  keep  a  centre,  and 
their  work  of  watching  the  sea  was  supplemented  by  the 
services  of  farm  labourers  who,  at  the  widely  separated 
intervals  of  the  rocket  stations,  were  placed  on  duty  to  look 
for  signals  of  distress  from  the  waterway.  It  is  scarcely  a 
system  likely  to  be  of  much  use  on  so  terrible  a  shore,  built, 
as  it  seems,  for  the  mockery  of  man,  the  puny,  stout-hearted 
creature  of  Nature's  weakest  birth  moment. 

For  this  angle  of  North  Devon,  which  culminates  in  the 


1 2  A  Man  of  Genius 

rocks  of  Hartland  Point,  is  a  coast  given  over,  in  times  of 
storm  and  mist,  to  all  the  forces  of  destruction.  During  a 
winter  gale  the  savagery  of  the  scene  is  nerve-shattering,  for 
in  the  shrilling  of  a  sea-mew,  in  the  lash  of  a  breaker,  in  the 
contour  of  a  rock  outline,  there  seems  to  speak  the  antagon- 
ism of  the  dumb  brute  forces  that  resist  man  and  yet  clamour 
in  the  lust  of  his  rage.  To  stand  in  a  storm  on  the  cliffs  of 
Hartland  is  to  hear  the  echoes  of  the  bestial  roar  of  a  Bastille 
crowd,  or  the  yell  that  rings  from  a  thousand  throats  at  the 
fall  of  some  human  temple  of  the  spirit.  The  paths  traced 
by  the  hand  of  history  over  the  map  of  the  past,  blood- 
stained as  they  are  in  reality,  seem  placid  with  sunlight 
beside  the  irresponsible  power  that  speaks  in  the  crash  of 
the  breakers  on  this  iron  shore,  in  the  lash  of  the  wind 
across  the  lonely  heaths,  and  even  in  the  light  that  flickers 
at  night  over  the  grass-grown  crannies  of  the  cliffs.  For  the 
"jacky-lanterns"  mock  with  their  light  footsteps  still,  like 
ghostly  wreckers'  lights  of  long  ago. 

To  Darracott,  who  was  familiar  enough  with  the  work, 
the  thought  of  his  night's  watch  was  overlaid  with  the  more 
pressing  anxiety  as  to  whether  he  would  be  in  time  for  the 
delight  to  which  he  had  been  looking  forward  all  day,  a 
walk  with  Thyrza  Braund.  As  he  turned  away  from  the  sea 
there  rose  in  the  distance  before  him  the  splendid  tower  of 
Hartland  Church,  springing  from  a  film  of  woodland,  like  a 
fortress  above  the  houses  it  protects.  This  was  Darracott's 
objective,  for  he  knew  that  Thyrza  would  be  at  the  Church 
to-night,  helping  in  the  decorations  for  the  harvest  festival. 
At  the  stile  that  leads  into  the  churchyard  he  waited,  stand- 
ing under  the  tiny  avenue  of  six  lime  trees.  The  service 
was  not  yet  over,  for  from  the  windows  fell  long  beams  of 
light,  turning  the  tombstones  into  spectral  forms  that  bent 
at  strangely  human  angles.  The  wind  howled  round  the 
summit  of  the  tower,  as  though  it  would  have  torn  it  from 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         i  3 

its  foundations,  but  below,  here  in  the  quiet  gloom,  there 
was  nothing  but  the  play  of  light  and  shadow.  To  Darra- 
cott's  ears  came  the  words  of  the  closing  hymn — 

Peace,  perfect  peace,  our  future  all  unknown  ? 
Jesus  we  know,  and  He  is  on  the  throne. 
Peace,  perfect  peace,  death  shadowing  us  and  ours? 
Jesus  has  vanquish'd  death  and  all  its  powers. 

So  they  sang,  with  the  battering-ram  of  storm  overhead, 
and  in  their  hearts  the  fear  that  waits  for  every  life  at  some 
turning  of  the  road.  To  Darracott's  throbbing  heart  this 
resignation  to  the  will  of  the  Unknown  seemed  like  the 
wailing  of  those  who  have  long  closed  their  account  with 
earthly  things. 

At  last,  after  the  few  women  who  made  up  the  congrega- 
tion had  passed  down  the  path,  there  came  the  figure  for 
which  his  eyes  had  been  watching,  and  with  a  sudden  leap 
at  his  heart  he  came  forward  to  be  ready  at  the  stile  to  help 
her  over. 

**I  thought  you  would  be  here,"  he  said,  as  she  put  out 
her  hand. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see  plainly  the  expression  of  her  face, 
but  he  knew  it  by  heart. 

''You'll  let  me  walk  back  with  you?"  he  asked,  as  they 
turned  down  the  village  street,  where  the  friendly  eyes  of 
the  lighted  windows  peeped  into  their  faces  as  they  passed. 
"  *Tis  too  late  for  'ee  to  go  all  that  way  back  by  yourself." 

"Why,  I've  done  it  hundreds  of  times,"  she  said  with 
a  laugh. 

There  was  a  resonant  quality  about  her  voice  that  lin- 
gered pleasantly  on  the  ear,  for  all  the  blurred  intonation 
of  country  roughness. 

"And  you've  a  day's  work  behind  you,  too,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  for  this  silent  man  was  rather  a  perplexity  to 
Thyrza. 


14  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I'd  do  a  deal  to  get  a  minute  with  you,  and  that  you 
know  well  enough.     Don't  you,  Thyrza?" 

"  'Tisn't  what  you  ought  to  say  to  me,  though,"  she  said. 
In  the  light  from  a  passing  trap  Darracott  caught  the  flash 
of  a  dimple  on  her  round  cheek. 

"  'Tis  your  birthday  to-day,"  he  said  gently,  "and  I've 
made  a  little  box  for  you,  if  you'll  accept  of  it." 

With  a  round  "Oh"  of  pleasure,  Thyrza  took  the  box 
and  looked  inside.  Within,  there  reposed  three  hedge- 
sparrow's  eggs  on  a  layer  of  cotton  wool. 

"They're  common  eggs,"  he  said  apologetically,  "but 
they're  just  the  colour  of  your  eyes.  That's  why  I  put 
'em  in." 

No  one  in  the  neighbourhood  knew  more  than  Darracott 
of  the  ways  of  birds  and  beasts.  He  could  tell  where  the 
peregrine  falcon  had  spent  one  summer,  he  could  have  told 
where  a  pair  of  choughs  were  to  be  found  on  the  cliffs:  he 
could  have,  but  he  did  not. 

Thyrza  laughed  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  Then  her 
glow-worm  glance  fell  before  the  fierce  tenderness  of  his 
eyes,  and  she  noticed  how  his  hand  trembled  as  he  lifted 
it  to  his  face.  For  a  moment  she  tasted  the  sweetness 
of  her  own  power,  but  presently  the  kindness  which  was 
the  deepest  root  of  her  nature  had  asserted  itself. 

"  No,  no ;  take  it  back,  Mr.  Darracott,"  she  said.  "  I  can't 
keep  it.     I  can't  really." 

"You  don't  like  it?" 

"Oh,  I  do,  I  do.     But " 

"But  what  then?" 

"  'Tis  so  serious,"  she  faltered.  "I  can't  say  it  proper; 
but " 

"I  put  a  lot  into  that  box,  Thyrza.  Much,  much  more 
than  ever  I  could  show.  'Tis  poor  work,  I  know,  but  when 
I  sat  at  it  I  said,  ' Thyrza 's  little  fingers  '11  touch  this,  and 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         i  5 

perhaps  she'll  think  of  me.'  For  you  don't  know  how  all 
these  last  months  you've  hardly  been  out  of  my  mind. 
Words  hurt,  when  a  man  means  it,  but,  my  dear,  you're  the 
very  light  to  my  eyes.  You've  made  another  man  of  me. 
I  seem  to  have  been  half-dead  all  the  years  afore  I  set 
eyes  on  your  little  face.  But  now,  I'll  never  be  dead  again 
till  they  lay  me  in  my  coffin." 

"I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing.     I  didn't,  indeed." 

"Nay,  'tis  work  that  can  be  done  by  a  look,"  he  laughed. 

''And  you'll  take  my  box?" 

"No,  John,"  she  answered,  standing  still  and  looking 
steadily  into  his  face,  "I  can't.  'Tis  beautiful,  and  I  hate 
to  think  of  giving  it  back,  when  you've  worked  at  it  so  long 
for  me,  but  I  can't  take  it,  John,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
holding  it  out  and  looking  away,  lest  she  should  see  the 
misery  in  his  eyes.     "Oh,  John,  I'm  so  sorry,  so  sorry." 

His  hand  closed  over  the  box  and  her  hand  that  held  it. 
Suddenly  Thyrza  leant  forward  and  touched  his  shoulder 
with  her  left  hand,  seeing  as  she  did  so  the  strong  ties  of 
kindred  nature  that  bound  her  to  this  man;  they  were 
moulded  of  the  same  clay,  born  for  the  same  experiences  of 
life,  and  his  rough  toil  she  could  understand.  Three  weeks 
ago  she  had  watched  a  group  of  women  huddling  together 
to  see  the  men  launch  the  lifeboat.  The  storm  and  the 
men  meant  but  little  to  her,  for  she  just  wanted  to  stand 
among  the  women,  to  feel  what  they  felt,  even  though  she 
had  been  the  weariest  and  most  careworn  of  them  all. 
This  would  be  her  life  by  the  side  of  John  Darracott,  a  life 
to  whose  measure  her  own  heart-strings  vibrated,  even 
v/hile  her  fancy  desired  quite  another  fate. 

"I'm  hungered  for  you,"  he  said  simply.  "I  want  you. 
I  want  you.     I  can't  be  content  without  you,  my  maid." 

Every  word  was  a  stab  to  Thyrza,  whose  sole  thought  now 
was  to  escape. 


1 6  A  Man  of  Genius 

"No,  no,"  she  cried;   "I  can't,  I  can't.     Never." 

Before  the  sincerity  of  this  he  let  her  hand  fall.  Then 
as  she  touched  him  gently  with  her  finger  tips,  he  winced. 

" Not  that,"  he  said  savagely.  "  'Tis  a  man  you'm  touch- 
ing." 

His  next  instinct  was  the  desire  to  calm  her  trouble, 
when  he  saw  her  moisten  her  dry  lips,  and  guessed  that  her 
heart  was  beating  wildly  like  that  of  a  creature  just  snared. 

"Child,  never  mind,  don't  grieve,"  he  said.  "For,  after 
all,  I  thank  God  that  'tis  a  man  you'm  touching.  I  was 
a  stone  before,  but  you've  given  me  a  heart,  even  if  it  aches." 

"Forgive  me,  John.  But  I  can't,  for  there's  some  one 
else." 

After  a  moment's  pause,  he  said — 

"Will  'ee  just  give  me  one  kiss,  my  dear.  Just  to  remem- 
ber 'ee  by?" 

But  as  she  lifted  her  face  to  his,  he  merely  pressed  his 
cheek  to  hers,  and  holding  her  close  to  him  by  her  clasped 
hands,  whispered,  "God  made  you  and  life  and  death.  I 
can  feel  'em  all  now.  Don't  you  fret,  my  pretty,  for  you've 
been  a  true  woman.  And  if  I  can't  live  and  die  by  the  side 
of  'ee,  why,  there's  no  law  against  thought." 

"And  we'll  see  each  other  sometimes,"  she  sobbed. 

"Surely,  sometimes,"  said  John  steadily. 

As  he  stood  watching  her  walk  along  the  road,  he  won- 
dered how  he  was  to  live  through  the  long  days  before  him. 
For  every  morning  when  he  awoke,  the  first  thought  was 
Thyrza,  and  through  the  working  hours  a  light  had  shone, 
because  in  the  evenings,  when  the  yoke  of  labour  was 
lifted,  he  had  often  managed  to  meet  her.  He  looked 
down  at  the  box  she  had  left  in  his  hand ;  it  seemed  some- 
how like  the  crumb  a  prisoner  has  prepared  for  the  mouse 
that  is  dead.  Then  he  roused  himself,  and  forgetting  his 
night's  watch,  followed  her  along  the  road,  for  the  mouse  is 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         17 

more  precious  to  the  prisoner  than  whole  flocks  to  the  man 
of  crowded  pastures. 

At  last  he  reached  the  farm  of  Long  Furlong,  where 
Thyrza  lived  as  help  to  the  mistress.  The  front  of  the 
house  was  dark,  but  the  yard  was  lighted  by  a  gleam  of 
firelight  from  the  open  kitchen  door.  As  Darracott  stood 
outside,  the  scent  of  the  f'uchsia  bush  that  was  growing  over 
the  wall  of  the  garden  mingled  in  dream-like  fashion  with 
the  squeak  of  a  fiddle  that  was  being  played  in  the  kitchen. 
Gradually  the  magnetism  of  the  tune  drew  him  forward,  till 
he  stood  looking  through  the  half-open  door. 

In  the  light  of  the  fire  that  leapt  in  ruddy  flames  on  the 
white-washed  walls  there  sat  a  lad  leaning  back  in  a 
Windsor  chair,  as  he  cuddled  a  fiddle  to  his  clean-shaven 
chin.  A  brown  spaniel  with  a  bandaged  paw  lay  warming 
its  stomach  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  two  candles  set  high  on 
the  mantelpiece  threw  their  light  downward  on  the  boy's 
face.  As  Darracott  watched,  the  fiddling  ceased,  and 
presently  through  the  room  there  cooed  a  bird-note,  liquid 
as  the  thrill  of  a  thrush  and  mellow  as  the  fall  of  rain-drops 
on  the  leaves.  It  came  from  the  pursed-up  lips  of  the 
fiddler,  whom  Darracott  recognised  as  Ambrose  Velly,  the 
only  son  of  the  farmer  of  Long  Furlong. 

Then  the  door  behind  the  settle  opened,  and  as  Thyrza 
came  in,  Ambrose  called  to  her — 

"Come,  Thyrza,  dance.  For  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is 
upon  me  to-night,  and  I  can  play." 

Then,  as  he  drew  his  bow  with  a  backward  swing  of  his 
head,  the  measure  of  a  dance  tune  rippled  from  the  fiddle. 
In  the  gallant  pose  of  the  lad's  head,  in  the  backward  sweep 
of  a  solitary  lock  of  hair  from  his  forehead,  there  was  a 
suggestion  of  those  lawless  winds  of  the  fancy  that  blow 
from  unseen  depths  at  the  call  of  the  spirit  of  youth.  The 
slight,  yet  muscular,  frame  of  the  player  was  a-taut  with  the 


1 8  A  Man  of  Genius 

nervous  strain  of  elation.  The  keen,  dancing  eyes,  sea-blue 
in  the  daytime,  yet  green  with  the  light  behind  them, 
gleamed  beneath  the  broad,  domed  forehead  as  he  tilted 
his  chin  backwards  and  joined  the  notes  of  the  violin  with 
a  sort  of  wordless  song  that  bubbled  from  the  depths  of  joy. 
It  was  simple  playing  in  its  way,  and  the  tunes  were  impro- 
vised from  snatches  of  old  country  song  or  fragments  of 
opera  melodies  that  the  player  had  learnt  by  ear;  in  the 
spirit  of  the  player  there  lived  all  the  charm  of  it. 

Opposite  him,  on  the  flags  of  the  kitchen,  Thyrza  was 
dancing  with  half-closed  eyes  and  a  body  that  answered 
dreamily  to  the  notes  of  the  fiddle.  She  took  as  many 
shapes,  it  seemed,  as  the  curving  back  of  a  wave  that  falls 
wind-driven,  on  the  rocks.  At  one  moment  she  was  dancing 
as  lightly  as  the  mist  that  rises  from  a  waterfall,  at  another, 
as  gaily  as  the  dewdrops  that  sparkle  in  the  grass,  and 
again,  as  slowly  as  the  foot  of  age  that  walks  death-ward. 
Her  dancing  was  born  of  the  joy  and  pain  she  could  never 
describe  in  words,  born,  too,  of  the  nomad  spirit  of  her 
fathers;  for  she  was  one  of  the  "Braunds  of  Bucks,"  the 
colony  of  dark,  half-Spanish  people,  who  work  as  ship- 
breakers  along  the  coast  and  form  a  race  alien  to  the  native 
folk.  She  was  wholly  unconscious  of  anything  but  the 
sound  that  led  her,  now  dreamy  as  the  coo  of  a  wood-dove, 
now  sadly  sweet,  like  the  song  a  mother  sings  to  her  baby, 
now  wild,  like  the  flying  pulses  that  rush  to  their  delight. 
For  when  Ambrose  Velly  took  up  his  fiddle,  in  the  sound 
of  it,  to  Thyrza,  sang  the  things  of  creation,  as  clearly  as  in 
the  very  mating  song. 

To  Darracott  it  seemed  that  the  tapping  of  her  heels  was 
the  beat  of  hob-nailed  shoes  that  rattled  on  his  heart.  She 
was,  in  truth,  dancing  away  his  homely  visions  of  the 
future;  for  vaguely  he  recognised  that  the  zest  of  a  life  in 
which  he  could  not  even  breathe  was  thrilling  through  the 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         19 

room  where  these  two  were  so  happy  together.  In  the 
glory  of  it  he  felt  his  own  sluggishness  as  a  stubborn  jade 
which  no  spur  can  rouse;  with  his  halting  speech  and  heavy 
tread,  he  seemed  rusting  as  he  watched— outside.  For 
there  he  belonged,  to  the  rough  winds,  the  sea  and  the  slow 
earth.  Then,  with  a  pang  of  distrust,  he  gazed  again  into 
the  face  of  the  youth  who  could  thus  turn  Thyrza  into  a 
sleep-walker.  As  Darracott  watched,  he  held  the  carved 
box  tightly,  yet  even  then,  so  carefully,  that  his  great  strength 
avoided  crushing  the  thin  sides  of  it.  For  he  possessed  the 
hands  that  can  make  minute  models  of  full-rigged  ships,  fast- 
en them  delicately  down  and  fit  them  into  bottles,  where  they 
start  into  upright  position  with  the  pull  of  a  piece  of  elastic. 

Ambrose  was  now  playing  the  old  tune,  "The  Wind 
among  the  Barley,"  playing  it  with  an  intensity  that  thrilled 
with  the  warmth  of  things.  As  he  played,  he  passed  in 
fancy  from  one  delight  to  another,  from  the  rustling  sweep 
of  the  bearded  heads  in  the  rush  of  the  jolly  wind  to  the 
lingering  breath  of  cows  in  the  lane;  from  the  sigh  of  the 
breeze  in  the  pines  to  the  roar  of  the  tides  that  tear  at 
the  cliffs.  He  had  become  a  child  of  the  wind ;  for  the  lilt 
of  the  tune  sang  in  his  heart  as  it  was  singing  in  Thyrza's, 
but  with  this  difference,  that  in  the  dancer  it  provoked  but 
the  vague  pleasure  of  a  sensation  that  was  instantly  trans- 
lated into  movement,  while  in  Ambrose  himself  it  aroused 
pictures  that  harmonised  with  the  ideas  called  up  by  the 
book  he  had  been  reading. 

For  he  was  just  awaking  to  the  dearest  delight  of  the 
old  earth,  the  sweet  savour  of  human  life  that  is  wrapt  up 
in  the  books  men  write,  the  songs  they  make,  and  the 
pictures  they  paint.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had 
made  out  a  passage  in  French  by  himself,  in  old  French, 
too,  par  le  splendeur  Dex,  and  life  had  given  him  a  new 
key  to  its  wonder  world.     Joy  !  Joy  !  Joy  !  sang  his  heart, 


20  A  Man  of  Genius 

from  brain  to  nerve,  from  nerve  to  fiddle-strings.     It  was 
old  Villon's  confession  that  rang  in  young  Velly's  head — 

He  Dieu  !     Se  j'eusse  estudie 
Au  tems  de  ma  jeunesse  folle, 
Et  k  bonnes  moeurs  dedie, 
J'eusse  maison  et  couche  molle  ! 

"Ma  jeunesse  folle,"  he  repeated  under  his  breath. 
There  ought  to  have  been  "pretty  maids  all  of  a  row"  to 
dance  in  front  of  him;  there  ought  to  have  been  vineyards 
and  olive-yards  outside,  instead  of  dun  fields  and  grey 
sea.  But  the  player  cared  not,  in  the  joy  of  the  artist  nerves 
that  thrilled  to  his  finger-tips. 

On  the  table  lay  the  book  that  had  wrought  this  witchery, 
a  history  of  French  literature  that  he  had  been  devouring 
with  a  fastidious  haste  that  rejected  solid  facts  in  the 
pleasure  of  fine  phrases,  even  at  times  in  the  joy  of  mere 
names  full  of  the  sweetness  of  southern  beauty.  Maitre 
Frangois  Rabelais;  the  very  echoes  of  it  gave  visions,  and 
over  the  soft  syllables  Francois  Villon,  he  lingered  like  a 
lover  over  his  mistress's  little  heart-name,  relishing  the  taste 
of  the  old  tavern  rascal's  human  charm. 

Suddenly  a  string  snapped,  and  Ambrose  laid  his  fiddle 
on  the  polished  seat  of  the  settle,  while  Thyrza  sank  down 
panting  on  the  bench  by  the  table,  and  laid  her  outstretched 
arms  along  it. 

"Thyrza,  Thyrza,"  cried  Ambrose,  "what  the  devil  has 
got  into  us  both  to-night  ?  But  you  can  dance,  I'll  say  that 
for  you.  And  I  can  play  a  bit,  too.  Faith,  I  can  play,  and 
no  mistake." 

His  delight  in  his  own  achievements  was  as  naive  as  the 
pleasure  of  a  lamb  when  it  first  discovers  the  blissful  power 
of  tail-wagging  to  be  a  personal  attribute. 

"It  does  so  make  my  heart  beat,"  said  Thyrza,  "to  hear 
you  play.     Something  comes  up,  up,  into  my  throat  almost." 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         21 

"Up,  up,"  mocked  Ambrose,  giving  three  trills  on  muted 
strings;  he  could  not  bear  to  be  long  separated  from  his  fiddle. 

"  You'm  mazed,  I  do  believe,"  laughed  Thyrza,  dimpling 
below  the  traces  of  tears  that  Darracott  had  noted  round 
her  eyes,  but  to  which  Ambrose  remained  entirely  oblivious, 
"and  if  anvbody  else  was  to  hear  you,  they'd  think  so  too." 

"Well,  mother's  upstairs.  And  she's  often  heard  mc 
before,"  said  Ambrose,  stretching  out  his  legs  to  the  fire  in 
luxurious  ease. 

"There  might  be  somebody  else  for  all  you  know,"  said 
Thyrza  in  a  small  voice  that  trembled  a  little.  "I  don't 
believe  I  came  home  alone  to-night  from  the  Church 
decorating." 

But  if  she  wanted  to  arouse  her  hearer's  jealousy,  her 
attempt  was  quite  unavailing,  for  Ambrose  merely  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  the  table  for  his  book,  saying — 

"There  now,  let  me  get  on  with  this,  there's  a  good  girl. 
I  have  piped  unto  you  and  you  have  danced.  That,  Thyrza, 
ought  to  be  enough  for  any  reasonable  woman.  You're 
a  nice  little  thing  in  your  way,  but  you're  a  terrible  waste 
of  time  to  a  busy  man." 

With  a  laugh  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  her,  as  she 
shook  a  plump  fist  at  him  in  anger  that  was  half-feigned, 
half-real.  For  underneath  the  teasing  tone  she  divined  an 
indifference  to  her  that  was,  womanlike,  infinitely  more 
alluring  than  Darracott's  devotion. 

"By  Jove,"  said  Ambrose,  "you  are  a  pretty  piece,  too. 
Come  over  and  give  us  a  peck,  child." 

Thyrza  Braund  had  the  beauty  of  the  dawn;  her  tawny 
hair  still  retained  the  soft  growth  of  a  baby's,  her  lips  the 
kissable  quality  of  a  child's.  Her  large  eyes  alone,  under 
their  full  curved  lids,  were  womanlike.  The  whole  face 
had  the  appearance  of  a  bow,  even  to  the  upward-springing 
dents  at  the  corners  of  the  lips  and  the  tip-tilted  chin  and 


22  A  Man  of  Genius 

nose.  The  full  curves  of  bosom  and  arms  had  the  exuber- 
ance of  a  ripening  peach. 

At  the  mocking  words  her  lips  began  to  tremble,  and  a 
spasm  of  childish  anger  convulsed  her  face.  She  was 
accustomed  to  be  teased  by  Ambrose,  but  to-night  her  nerves 
had  been  shaken  by  her  pity  for  Darracott. 

"You'm  hard  on  me,  Ambrose,"  she  protested;  "and  I 
always  do  everything  you  ask.  There's  nobody  on  earth  so 
unkind  to  me  as  you.  And  there's  folks  that  like  me  very 
much,  too." 

The  idea  of  her  wonderful  secret  burnt  in  her  heart  for 
utterance,  but  her  lips  were  sealed  by  the  thought  of  how 
the  big  man  had  trembled.  Darracott's  love  was  the  first 
secret  she  had  ever  kept  to  herself,  but  his  reverent  gentle- 
ness towards  her  called  up  an  answering  instinct  of  reserve 
to  match  his  fine  simplicity. 

"You're  a  proper  spitfire,"  said  Ambrose.  "Why,  I 
believe  you'd  like  to  beat  me  this  minute." 

"I  hate  you,  I  hate  you!  "  she  sobbed,  flinging  herself 
out  pf  the  room  in  a  whirl  of  petticoats,  with  the  echoes  of 
Ambrose's  laugh  ringing  in  her  ears. 

When  the  door  banged  behind  Thyrza,  Darracott  drew  a 
deep  breath  of  relief,  as  though  an  unbearable  pressure  had 
been  removed  from  his  heart.  For  this  slow  man  had  read 
the  secret  of  her  slavish  dependence  on  a  lad's  caprice,  and 
with  the  painful  foresight  of  love  was  able  to  view  the  scene 
in  the  light  of  the  future,  as  well  as  of  the  present.  To 
him  this  play-acting  was  diabolic  possession,  and  Thyrza,  no 
girl  on  the  verge  of  love,  but  an  automaton  swayed  by  the 
will  of  a  lad,  unschooled  by  experience,  ignorant  even  of 
the  nature  of  his  own  feelings. 

As  Darracott  returned  home,  he  recognised  his  own 
powerlessness  to  help  Thyrza  in  any  way.  He  knew  her  to 
be  fatherless,  of  a  wildish  stock.     She  was,  it  is  true,  a 


The  Wind  Among  the  Barley         23 

distant  cousin  of  Mrs.  Velly,  and  more  in  the  position  of 
friend  than  servant.     Yet,  even  while  he  cursed  the  base- 
ness of  his  own  imagination,  he  saw,  in  a  series  of  pictures, 
the  ever-recurring  possil^ihties  of  harm  to  the  child  in  her 
nearness  to  the  youth  who  could  draw  her  as  the  moon 
draws  the  tides.     Like  all  men  who  have  lived  natural  lives, 
Darracott  was  very  reverent  to  womanhood,  but   in  the 
thought  of  her  own  recklessness,  he  wiped  away  the  sweat 
from  his  forehead.     Self-pity  is  to  a  man  what  weeping  is 
to  a  woman,  a  safety-valve,  but  in  strong  hearts  like  Darra- 
cott's  there  is  no  room  for  that  gentle  relief.     In  these 
minutes  he  made  a  long  journey,  back  along  the  road  that 
his  race  had  travelled,  to  the  primitive  savage  that  lurks  in 
every  man.     He  wanted  to  press  the  mocking  light  out  of 
the  lad's  eyes,  to  feel  the  starting  veins  under  his  thumb. 
For  in  the  exaggeration  of  jealousy  Darracott  felt  that  such 
dancing  as  this  was  a  subtle  shame  to  womanhood.    Then 
the  momentary  impulse  passed  into  a  panic-stricken  hurry- 
ing to-and-fro  of  his  thoughts  in  the  search  for  help,  for  he 
felt  like  a  chained  man  watching  a  woman  drown. 

The  moon  riding  high  above  the  clouds  lighted  up  the 
coast,  flashing  into  the  black  chasms  of  the  bays  and  out- 
lining the  dark  shadow  of  the  rocket-house.  Over  the 
Atlantic  the  light  from  Hartland  Point  pulsed  out,  alter- 
nately white  and  red.  But  by  now  Darracott  had  forgotten 
the  storm,  had  forgotten  his  night's  watch  in  the  intense 
weariness  that  follows  passion.  Great  weights  fell  on  his 
eyelids,  so  that  he  could  scarcely  stagger  down  the  cliff 
path,  and  chains  seemed  to  hold  back  his  limbs;  for  to  his 
quiet  mind  had  come  the  reaction  that  follows  on  e.xcite- 
ment.  Virtually  he  was  sleep-walking,  and  when  at  last  his 
own  door  was  reached,  he  flung  it  open,  and  throwing 
himself  with  his  arms  across  the  table,  fell  into  the  deep 
sleep  that  nothing  can  resist. 


CHAPTER   II 
LITTLE     EGYPT 

THE  firelight  and  candlelight  by  which  Ambrose  Velly 
was  trying  to  read  soon  made  his  eyes  ache,  and  fling- 
ing aside  the  history  of  French  literature,  he  lay  back  in 
his  chair,  resting  his  head  on  his  clasped  hands.  The  air 
was  full  of  the  scent  of  burning  wood,  which  came  from 
four  large  branches  that  had  been  thrust  lengthwise  into 
the  fire.  That  stove  was  one  of  Mrs.  Velly's  trials,  for  in 
the  downgrade  of  the  family  fortunes  the  rent  of  the  farm 
had  been  unpaid  for  some  years,  and  she  had  never  dared 
to  ask  the  landlord  for  a  new  one.  Hence,  Long  Furlong 
still  retained  the  old-fashioned  oven  called  a  Bodley,  from 
the  name  of  the  Exeter  manufacturer  who  invented  the  first 
stove  with  fountain  and  oven  on  either  side. 

Down  the  long  kitchen,  where  the  remains  of  fine  plaster 
work  were  still  to  be  found  on  one  wall,  there  hung  from 
the  rafters  of  black  oak  tufts  of  feverfew  and  wormwood, 
the  first  a  cattle  drench,  the  second  a  tonic,  and  both  monu- 
ments testifying  to  Mrs.  Velly's  thrift.  It  was  a  standing 
cause  of  dispute  that  Ambrose  had  refused  to  swallow  the 
wormwood  decoction  ever  since  he  read  that  it  grows  mainly 
in  old  churchyards,  where  it  was  first  planted  in  order  that 
the  church  floors  might  be  sprinkled  with  it  at  certain 
seasons. 

The  thoughts  that  flitted  through  Ambrose's  head  as  he 
sat  before  the  fire  were  by  no  means  concerned  with  Thyrza, 
24 


Little  Egypt  25 

who  was  ver\'  much  like  his  fiddle  to  him,  an  instrument  on 
which  he  could  play  whenever  he  was  seized  with  the  desire 
to  do  so.  His  mind  had  reverted  to  the  wonderful  moment, 
several  years  before,  in  which  there  had  been  bom  the  real 
passion  of  his  life.  We  keep  no  registers  of  mental  births, 
we  men  who  chronicle  so  carefully  the  events  of  the  flesh, 
yet  a  wiser  race  than  ours  would  mark  the  first  faint  flicker- 
ings  of  those  wandering  gleams  that  herald  the  birth  of 
a  mental  passion  in  a  human  soul.  Out  of  the  East,  or  out 
of  the  West,  tempest-driven,  or  carried  by  the  softest  breeze, 
they  come,  the  finer  intuitions  whence  spring  those  visions 
of  inborn  powers,  afterwards  to  be  incarnated  in  word  or 
colour,  stone  or  sound. 

Ambrose  could  see  himself  sitting  at  that  very  table  by 
his  side,  opening  the  book  with  fine  plates  of  French 
cathedrals  that  the  vicar  had  lent  him.  As  he  turned  over 
the  pages,  he  had  come  suddenly  upon  the  phrase  "flying 
buttress,"  which  struck  him  as  so  curious  that  he  turned 
back  to  find  the  meaning  of  the  expression.  Whilst  he 
read,  all  the  cravings  after  beauty  that  had  vaguely  pos- 
sessed him  from  childhood  began  to  crystallise  into  defi- 
nite desire.  His  education  at  the  parish  school  had  only 
revealed  tantalising  glimpses  of  the  world  of  letters,  but 
here,  in  this  work  on  architecture,  something  burnt  for  him 
like  the  fire  which  brings  out  the  secret  writing  of  a  cipher, 
the  cipher  of  his  own  nature.  He  began  to  long  for 
instant  possession  of  books  on  "figures,"  books  of  applied 
mathematics,  so  that  he,  too,  might  grapple  with  the 
question  of  strain  in  buildings.  For  he  read  how  the 
architects  of  the  Middle  Ages  tried  to  solve  the  difficulty 
of  weight-bearing  in  their  edifices  by  exterior  buttresses 
exposed  to  the  weather,  so  that  if  these  failed  the  whole 
building  collapsed,  and  how  the  mistake  of  one  school  was 
repeated  generation  after  generation,  because  of  the  lack 


26  A  Man  of  Genius 

of  mathematical  knowledge.  In  a  fever  he  turned  the 
pages  to  see  if  there  were  any  guides  here  to  the  hidden 
parts  of  the  mystery.  But  there  were  none,  only  a  fact 
which  explained  what  had  often  puzzled  him,  that  the 
names  of  the  architects  of  churches  are  usually  unknown. 
Learning  that  this  was  because  they  were  ecclesiastics, 
whose  order  absorbed  the  honour  of  their  achievements, 
he  decided  that  when  his  cathedral  was  built,  the  name  of 
the  architect  should  be  blazoned  abroad.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  saw  his  folly  and  laughed  at  such  thoughts  in  a 
lad  who  had  no  art  knowledge,  no  mathematical  training, 
and  no  possibilities  of  such. 

He  had  travelled  a  long  way  since  that  night,  for  he  had 
just  now  come  back  from  a  three  years'  course  of  training 
with  a  country  architect,  a  friend  of  his  mother's,  who  had 
taken  him  for  a  smaller  premium  than  would  have  been 
accepted  with  another  pupil.  In  a  measure  he  had,  then, 
already  entered  the  kingdom  of  promise  that  had  looked  so 
far  away  on  the  evening  when  he  first  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  flying  buttress. 

Yet  he  was  full  of  an  undercurrent  of  vexation  at  the 
shackling  power  of  the  circumstances  that  still  remained  to 
be  mastered.  The  sensation  made  him  restless,  so  that 
he  got  up  and  went  to  see  to  the  stables  and  their  occupants. 
When  he  returned  to  the  house  he  found  that  Thyrza  had 
lit  the  lamp  and  was  now  busy  with  the  preparations  for 
supper. 

^'  Old  Caleb's  daughter  has  come  home  unexpected  to- 
night," she  remarked,  with  recovered  composure.  "She'll 
be  over  to  see  the  missus  bime-by,  I  reckon." 

Caleb  Vinnicombe  was  the  one  labourer  now  employed 
at  the  farm,  and  his  cottage  across  the  road  was  a  swarming 
nest  of  children,  the  offspring  of  a  second  marriage.  There 
was  a  long  scraping  sound  as  Thyrza  drew  out  the  table 


Little  Egypt  27 

for  supper  and  threw  a  coarse  tablecloth  over  one  end. 
Just  at  that  moment  the  door  from  the  house  into  the 
kitchen  opened,  and  Ambrose  jumped  up  as  his  mother 
appeared  round  the  corner  of  the  settle. 

It  was  a  fine,  almost  Roman  head,  that  of  Mrs.  Velly, 
with  white  hair  that  had  once  been  wiry  black,  drawn  back 
from  broad,  straight  brows.  The  contours  of  the  features 
had  been  refmed  till  they  stood  out  like  chiselled  ivory, 
but  in  the  brown  eyes  alone  there  still  burnt  the  fire  of  life 
that  age  and  trouble  had  driven  from  the  rest  of  her  face. 
These  could  still  Hash  with  rage  and  laughter,  still  melt 
with  tenderness  as  they  had  done  years  ago. 

Behind  Mrs.  Velly  there  stood  a  blowsy  country-wench,  her 
hard,  red  cheeks  and  hands  fiaming  like  purple  porcelain. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Lapthorne,"  cried  Thyrza,  coming  up  to 
shake  hands  with  the  girl,  "what  a  stranger,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"It's  old  Caleb's  daughter,"  whispered  iVIrs.  Velly  to 
Ambrose,  as  she  bustled  about  the  preparations  for  a  meal. 

"Why,  Thyrza,  my  dear  life,"  said  the  visitor,  throwing 
back  her  beaded  cape  and  revealing  her  broad  bust  decor- 
ated with  a  whole  cluster  of  pins  stuck  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress,  "you'm  behindhand;  I  buried  Lapthorne  two  years 
agone,  and  now  I'm  Mrs.  Rosevear." 

"Never  !  "  chimed  in  Mrs.  Velly,  bringing  out  the  great 
cheese-dish.     "And  you  not  twenty-four  !" 

Mrs.  Rosevear  flashed  her  row  of  perfect  teeth  in  a  wide 
smile  that  showed  the  great  joy  of  triumph. 

"Why,  however  do  'ee  compass  it?"  asked  Thyrza. 
"Here  be  I  that  haven't  got  one  man,  and  on  a  farm  and 
all;  and  here  be  you  with  two.  'Tisn't  looks  and  'tisn't 
money  that  done  it,  neither,"  she  added,  with  true  country 
frankness. 

Ambrose  laughed  outright,  while  Mrs.  Velly  looked  at 
him  with  a  motherly  pride  in  seeing  him  happy. 


28  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Thyrza,  Thyrza,"  she  interposed,  ''now  you  behave 
yourself." 

But  Mrs.  Rosevear  was  in  no  way  offended. 

''No,"  she  said  triumphantly,  "'tisn't  looks  and  'tisn't 
money  that  draws  the  men.  'Tis  the  'Come  hither'  in  the 
eye.     That's  what  'tis,  the  'Come  hither'  in  the  eye." 

"But  how's  a  body  to  get  it,  Mrs.  Rosevear,  so  to 
call  'ee  what  you  lawful  are?"  said  Thyrza,  handing  the 
guest  the  cup  of  tea  that  graces  every  feast  in  the  West. 
"Was  'ee  always  gifted  that  way,  my  dear?" 

"Not  me,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear  frankly,  pouring  the  tea 
into  the  saucer  to  cool  it.  "Men  be  like  sheep,  let  one 
lead,  t'others  follow,  and  then  you  can  easy  slip  the  noose 
on  the  one  you  fancies." 

"But  'tis  the  getting  of  the  first  one  that  gallies  (bothers) 
a  maid,"  interposed  Mrs.  Velly,  while  Thyrza  nodded  her 
head  in  sad  acquiescence. 

"Tchuh,  tchuh,  missus,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear,  "and 
what's  wits  been  given  to  a  woman  for,  I  should  like  to 
know,  except  to  compass  the  management  o'  man.  Now, 
just  you  let  me  tell  a  bit,"  she  continued,  putting  down  her 
cup  and  squaring  her  determined  shoulders  in  the  heat  of 
narrative. 

"I'd  a  deal  of  bother  with  Lapthorne  first-long.  Us 
was  to  have  been  married  of  a  Saturday  up  to  Plymouth, 
where  I'd  been  living  a  good  bit  then,  and  Lapthorne  was 
to  come  up  there,  him  being  a  Holsworthy  man.  Now,  if 
you'll  believe  me,  on  the  Thursday  afore  that  Saturday  he 
was  heard  to  say  as  he  didn't  know  as  he'd  be  able  to  find 
time  to  come  up  to  Plymouth  a-Saturday." 

"A  pretty  fantod  (fuss)  you  must  ha'  been  in,"  breathed 
Thyrza  sympathetically. 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear,  lifting  an  impressive  fore- 
finger, "do  you  think  I  give  him  up  for  that?    Not  me. 


Little  Egypt  29 

I  took  and  packed  up  and  back  to  Holsworthy  again,  and 
there  I  plumped  down  afore  his  mother's  cottage  and  said 
I'd  come  to  stay.  I  filled  the  whole  of  their  front  room 
with  boxes  and  that.  And  in  that  front  room  they  found 
I  was  going  to  bide.  Us  lived  like  that  for  the  better  part 
of  a  week,  and  at  meals  I  didn't  si)are  the  victuals  neither. 
Then,  thinks  I,  'tis  getting  on  for  the  new  year,  and  us'll 
have  to  be  called  home  again  in  church  if  I  don't  make 
sure  of  Lapthorne  afore  then.  And  that'll  be  a  double 
expense.     I  must  borrow  Sam." 

"Borrow  Sam  !"  echoed  Thyrza  faintly,  as  Mrs.  Rose- 
vear's  greatness  became  apparent.  She  was  standing  with 
wide-open,  round  eyes  in  front  of  the  visitor,  while  Ambrose 
and  Mrs.  Velly  watched  the  two  from  the  table. 

"Iss,  fay,  that's  my  brother-law  up  to  Plymouth;  only 
Lapthorne  and  they  didn't  know  'en,  never  having  been  to 
see  us  to  Plymouth." 

"Whatever  good  was  he  to  'ee?" 

"  'Tis  in  these  little  ways,  my  dear,  that  you  can  tell 
what  a  woman's  made  of.  Why,  of  a  Sunday  morning 
Sam  came  along  to  Holsworthy  and  took  me  out,  same  as 
if  'twas  courting  he'd  come  for;  arm-in-crook  out  and 
clipsed  round  the  waist  back.  Did  the  thing  proper,  did 
Sam,  though  I'd  always  thought  'en  slack-baked  afore.  But 
then,  anybody'd  be  slack-baked  after  living  with  my  sister 
Selina." 

"And  Lapthorne?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"Went  to  church  New  Year's  Eve  like  a  lamb,  with  a 
carriage  and  pair  and  two  bottles  of  port,  and  wanted 
to  knock  Sam  into  the  middle  of  the  road  for  a  bouldacious 
chap.  A  proper  wedding,  it  was,  with  dancing  till  seven 
the  next  morning.  And  no  more  trouble  with  Lapthorne; 
noosed  he  was,  and  knowed  it." 

"Fine,  I  call  it,"  chuckled  Thyrza. 


30  A  Man  of  Genius 

"  But  the  finest  thing  was  that  I'd  got  over  his  old  mother, 
who  says  to  me,  'It's  all  very  well  for  you,  coming  down 
and  talking  about  a  wedding.  How  can  us  be  put  to  the 
bother  of  a  wedding,  with  the  cow  due  to  calve?'  " 

"And,"  continued  Mrs.  Rosevear,  after  a  pause,  "Lap- 
thorne  didn't  do  so  bad  for  hissel,  neither;  for  when  he  lay 
a-dying,  he  says,  'We've  got  on  very  well  together.  It's 
a  pity  I've  got  to  go,  wife,  isn't  it  ? '  But  it  struck  innerds, 
and  so  he'd  to  go — out  over  bar.  The  year  afore  that  I'd 
buried  my  little  maid.  I've  got  the  penny  some  one  gave 
her  a  week  afore  her  died,  set  in  a  fret-work  cross." 

There  was  a  sympathetic  silence  in  the  room. 

"Her  dad  made  the  cross,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear  gently; 
"us  thought  the  more  of  her,  there  being  but  the  one. 
But  there— 'A  hot  May  makes  a  fat  church  hay.'  Diph- 
thery,  it  was,  in  a  mortal  hot  spring.  And  being  wisht 
without  'em  I  took  up  with  Rosevear,  over  to  Bradworthy." 

"I  know,"  said  Ambrose;  "John  Rosevear,  oldish  and 
a  stuggy  (stout  and  short)  sort  of  a  chap." 

"Stuggy  or  no.  Master  Ambrose,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear, 
fiercely,  "he  earns  a  full  meal  for  hisself  and  me  most  days. 
And  in  my  house,  let  me  tell  'ee,  I'm  missus." 

Mrs.  Rosevear's  temper  was  rising,  for  Mrs.  Velly  was 
not  over  much  of  a  mistress  in  her  own  house,  according 
to  the  generally  accepted  opinion. 

"The  very  first  morning  after  we'd  been  to  church, 
I  says  to  Rosevear,  'Pluck  that  fowl.'  "Tis  plucked 
already,'  says  he.  And  so  it  was  plucked,  though  it  had 
slipped  my  mind — all  but  the  wing-feathers  that  I'd  trussed. 
Then  said  I,  'Pluck  every  feather  off  the  wings,  for  if  I  say 
"Pluck,"  plucked  it  shall  be.'"  Mrs.  Rosevear  spread 
out  her  knees,  and  planted  her  firm  hands  on  them,  as  she 
gazed  round  at  her  audience. 

"And  plucked  it  was,"  she  continued,  "though  there 


Little  Egypt  31 


never  was  such  a  sight  as  that  fowl  without  any  wing- 
feathers.  Us  had  to  eat  'en  ourselves,  for  I  couldn't  send 
'en  to  market  like  that.  But  I'd  never  no  more  trouble 
with  Rosevear,  and  what's  an  old  hen  to  a  man  that  knows 
he'd  better  look  alive  when  his  missus  bids  'en  ?  " 

"A  poor  soft  head,  he  must  be,"  sniffed  Thyrza,  with 
head  in  air.  She  adored  Mrs.  Velly,  and  intended  to  pay 
back  the  slight  about  a  woman  who  is  mistress  in  her  own 
house.  "Nooses  and  nets,  indeed,  I  wonder  you  bain't 
'shamed  to  sit  there,  telling  up  such  old  trade." 

Mrs.  Rosevear  sat  aghast  at  the  minx ;  then  she  turned  to 
Mrs.  Velly,  with  a  wink,  and  began  to  hum — 

"A  sweet  pretty  maiden  sat  under  a  tree, 
She  sighed  and  said,  Would  that  I  married  might  be." 

"  'Tis  a  poor  tale,"  she  concluded,  turning  again  towards 
Thyrza,  "for  a  woman  that  can't  get  a  man.  And  your 
cheeks  be  beginning  to  fall  in,  too." 

The  air  Mrs.  Rosevear  left  behind  her  in  the  room  was 
decidedly  electric. 

"Never  mind,  Thyrza,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  "she's  only 
teasing  you,  my  dear." 

But  two  round  tears  rolled  down  Thyrza's  cheek,  show- 
ing the  fine  grain  of  her  skin  as  they  trickled  across  it. 

"Fallen  in,  indeed,"  chuckled  Ambrose.  "Let's  have  a 
look  at  'em,"  he  said,  coming  near  and  placing  a  hand 
under  her  chin. 

But  thai  was  too  much,  and  with  a  jerk  Thyrza  fled  from 
him  and  rushed  upstairs  again. 

"Where's father?"  said  Ambrose,  drawing  a  three-legged 
stool  up  by  the  side  of  his  mother's  chair. 

"In  bed,  my  dear." 

There  was  a  sigh  of  relief  from  both,  for  it  was  always 
pleasanter  when  Mr.  Velly  had  retired. 

"Lad,  what's  bothering  you  to-night?"  said  Mrs.  Velly, 


32  A  Man  of  Genius 

softly  putting  a  hand  on  her  son's  shoulder.  She  had 
extinguished  the  light,  and  the  smouldering  firelight  flickered 
on  the  fronts  of  her  knitting  needles.  She  knitted  in  the 
old  country  fashion,  pushing  her  needles  against  two  corks 
that  were  slung  round  her  waist. 

"How  did  you  know,  mother?"  asked  Ambrose,  looking 
up  in  surprise. 

"My  dear,  if  mothers  don't  see  things,  who  will?  '* 

"I  got  to  thinking,  I  suppose." 

"About  what?"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  putting  her  knitting  on 
the  settle  and  watching  the  bright  head  of  her  son. 

"  Of  how  before  you're  born  everything  is  settled  for  'ee. 
You're  set  down  in  a  place  and  there  you  have  to  bide,  even 
if  it  isn't  what  you  want  to  do.  Here  am  I,  back  again,  and 
set  down  to  farm  work  once  more.  My  three  years'  train- 
ing thrown  away,  and  all  the  struggle  you  had  to  get  it  for 
me  wasted.  'To  plough  and  mow,  and  reap  and  sow,  and 
be  a  farmer's  boy.'  That's  the  size  of  life  for  me,"  he  said 
bitterly. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  "you  know  it  wasn't  any  one 
but  yourself  that  threw  up  the  work  in  Cornwall  to  come 
home  here.     Why  did  you  do  it,  if  you  didn't  mean  it  ?  " 

"Mother,  it's  not  fair  of  you  to  say  that.  You  know 
there  wasn't  money  enough  for  me  to  stay  away  longer,  or 
to  pay  another  premium.  And,"  he  added  in  a  low  voice, 
"I  couldn't  leave  you  any  longer  with  no  one  to  help  you 
with  the  work  and  with  father." 

"Ambrose,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  "I  didn't  want  you  to 
leave,  as  you  know.  I've  always  been  a  fighter,  and  fight 
I  shall  to  the  very  end.  I'd  have  strained  somehow  to  get 
you  more  teaching,  I  would,  indeed.  But  you  acted  so 
hasty.  And  now,  my  dear,  perhaps  it'll  only  be  a  short 
time  longer  that  you're  wanted  here.  He's  going  down 
very  fast,  much  faster  these  last  months  than  ever  before. 


Little  Egypt  33 

Don't  give  way.  Work  all  you  can,  and  hope.  I'll  see  yuu 
a  great  man  yet,  maybe." 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  father  years  ago?"  said  Ambrose 
with  uncompromising  directness.  "I  heard  a  man  say 
to-day,  'Ay,  Velly,  he's  going  down,  sure  'null.'  He  goes 
and  drinks  away  every  penny  of  ready  money,  and  we're 
two  years  behind  in  the  rent." 

Mrs.  Velly  drew  a  quick  breath,  as  the  old  do  before 
the  daring  lawlessness  of  young  thought,  that  recks  nothing 
of  the  close  ties  of  habit  and  ancient  obligation. 

"He's  treated  'ee  badly  enough,"  Ambrose  continued. 
"Long  Furlong  used  to  be  called  Little  Egypt,  Caleb  told 
me  the  other  day;  because,  as  he  said,  'There  was  a  mort 
of  victuals  of  every  sort  upon  it.'  There  isn't  now,  and 
that's  what  he  meant,  of  course." 

"Well?"  asked  Mrs.  Velly  in  a  hard  voice;  there  was 
more  to  come,  as  she  knew. 

"And  I'm  tied  to  a  plough  handle  and  with  nothing  to 
show  for  it,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  I  can't  even  have  six- 
pence for  a  box  of  pencils.  Why  on  earth  you  should 
stick  to  him  I  don't  know.  It  isn't  as  if  it  was  any  good, 
either." 

"Ambrose,  I  want  to  show  you  something,  something 
you've  never  heard  tell  of  before,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  with  a 
laugh  that  had  the  quiver  of  tears  in  it. 

Lighting  a  candle  she  led  him  down  the  passage  to  the 
best  room  with  its  album-crowded  table  and  ancient  piano. 
In  the  dark  corner  behind  the  door  was  a  carved  oak  chest, 
which  Ambrose  now  remembered  that  he  had  never  seen 
open.  Placing  her  candle  on  the  ground  and  taking  a  key 
from  her  pocket,  Mrs.  Velly  knelt  down,  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock  and  raised  the  lid.  Then  she  lifted  the  candle- 
stick and  held  it  over  the  dark  interior  of  the  chest.  Ambrose 
exclaimed  and  suddenly  knelt  by  his  mother's  side.  The 
3 


34  A  Man  of  Genius 

oak  case  looked  like  a  tomb,  for  hidden  in  the  shadows 
of  it  lay  a  white  baby  j&gure.  As  he  stooped  closer  he  saw 
that  it  was  carved  in  marble,  with  tiny  hands  crossed  over 
its  bare  breast,  above  the  curving  limbs  of  infantile  love- 
liness. 

"Mother,  what  is  it?"  he  cried,  putting  both  his  arms 
round  her.  As  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  hard  young  body 
she  quivered,  for  to  every  woman,  even  to  one  who  has 
borne  a  man  child,  the  half-known  power  of  the  body  of 
man,  the  life-bringer,  is  strange,  mysterious,  compelling. 

"That's  my  baby  girl  Janie.  She  died  when  a  sculptor 
lodged  here  with  us  one  summer.  He  asked  if  he  might 
make  a  model  of  her,  and  he  did.  Then,  months  after, 
when  he'd  gone  back  to  London,  he  sent  me  this.  She  was 
born  long  afore  I  had  you,  cheeld.     I'll  tell  'ee  all  I  can." 

"Don't,  if  it  hurts  you.  Don't,  mother  !'*  He  could 
feel  her  heavy,  painful  breathing  against  his  side. 

"I  must,  Ambrose.  It'll  tell  what  I  want  'ee  to  know. 
Janie  come  to  us,  to  father  and  me,  after  we'd  been  married 
a  year." 

Ambrose  nodded,  his  passionate  eyes  fixed  on  his  mother's 
face,  as  they  both  crouched  by  the  side  of  the  child's  casket. 

"But  she  wasn't  born  right,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  at  last, 
"  not  as  she  ought  to  ha'  been,  not  as  she  is  there  in  the  old 
ancient  chest." 

The  good,  fair  whiteness  of  the  child's  body  gleamed 
almost  luminously  from  the  shadowy  corner. 

"Your  father  wasn't  steady  one  night  when  he  took  me 
out  in  a  boat,  and  in  getting  out  I  had  a  fall,  and  Janie  was 
born,  only  a  seven  months'  child,  with  her  little  feet  all 
crushed.     She  never  would  have  walked,  Ambrose." 

"And  father?" 

"He  never  looked  but  once  at  her.  He  cursed  himself, 
and — I  hated  him.     I  never  let  'en  come  near  me,  as  a  wife 


Little  Egypt  35 

should,  not  for  years."  Mrs.  Velly  knelt,  leaning  over  the 
side  of  the  chest  to  avoid  her  son's  eyes. 

*'  Don't  go  on,  mother.     Why  should  you  tell  me  this  ?  " 

"I  must,  for  you  won't  understand  else.  And  then  he 
went  away  from  me — not  in  one  way,  for  he  bided  most 
times  home  here,  for  all  that  folks  could  tell.  But  I  wasn't 
a  wife  to  'en  all  those  years.  I  sent  'en  away — to  others, 
and  so  he  went  down.     I  did  it,  Ambrose." 

"No,  no,  mother,"  said  Ambrose,  getting  up  and  moving 
restlessly  about  the  room.  The  strong,  alert  woman  of 
every  day  seemed  pleading  with  her  son. 

"Yes,  I  did.  And  when  I  found  out  what  he'd  come  to, 
I  had  you,  sonny." 

"WTiy  do  you  tell  me  this?"  said  Ambrose  fiercely. 
"Why  should  I  know?  And  it's  been  agony  for  you  to  tell 
me.     Whatever  you've  done,  he's  paid  back,  God  knows." 

"This  is  why.  I  drove  'en  down,  because  I'd  a  heart 
that  wouldn't  forgive;  for  it  was  he  that  I  had  waited  for, 
trembling  as  a  maid  will  when  she  waits  in  the  dimpsy  for 
her  man.  He  was  the  man  that  gave  me  the  chillern  that 
lay  on  my  breast;  he  was  the  man  that  loved  me — ay, 
and  loves  me  still,  for  all  I've  had — blows." 

"No,  mother  !" 

"Iss,  child;  but  he's  the  thing  that  makes  me  and  keeps 
me  a  woman  with  a  heart  in  my  breast,  not  a  stone.  He'd 
be  life  to  me  down  in  hell.  That's  why  women  like  me 
don't  leave  their  men." 

"  Mother,  I'll  help  'ee.  I'll  never  be  the  least  of  a  burden 
to  'ee  again.  I'll  keep  things  going;  I'll  chuck  my  darned 
pencils  out  to  sea.     I'll  work  harder  than  I  ever  have  afore." 

"Eh,  lad,"  she  said,  clasping  him  with  a  laugh  and  a 
shake  as  he  knelt  beside  her  again.  "  Do  you  think  'twas 
for  that  I  ripped  up  my  life  for  'ee  to  look  into?  Young 
things  be  like  turkeys — a  rare  trouble  to  hatch,  regular 


36  A  Man  of  Genius 

churchyard  for  worriting  deaths,  and  little  profit  when  they 
come  to  market.  It's  this,  lad,"  she  said,  drawing  him 
up  to  her  shoulder,  "you're  a  man  now,  and  this  man's 
body  that  I  bore  has  a  man's  passions.  There's  things 
that  a  lad  doesn't  talk  to  his  mother  about,  and  so  she  must 
talk  to  him  as  well  as  she  can.  Mind,  boy,  when  your 
members  will  hardly  obey  'ee,  that  you'm  making  or  marring, 
not  your  own  life,  but  a  maiden's,  and  many  more  than  one 
maiden's,  belike.  'Tis  two  souls  and  two  lives  that's  held 
in  your  straining  arms  and  lives  on  and  on,  for  ages  and 
ages,  maybe;  and  pain  or  sorrow  or  peace  and  blessing 
waiting  for  'ee  at  the  end  of  the  lane.  Eh,  lad,  God  keep 
'ee  and  bless  'ee  and  guide  'ee  ! " 

She  held  him  for  a  moment  and  then  watched  him 
stumble  half -blindly  out  of  the  room,  all  the  vivid  fire  of 
the  bliss  and  agony  of  the  bygone  years  flashing  from  her 
eyes.  Then  she  shivered,  and  drew  the  grey,  three-cornered 
shawl  closer  over  her  tired  body. 

Still,  she  had  misunderstood  the  meaning  of  her  boy's 
perplexity.  Being  a  woman  she  saw  mainly  the  passionate 
side  of  life,  the  power  that  lights  the  hearth-fire  and  fills  the 
cradle  or — devastates  and  wrecks  and  ruins. 


CHAPTER  III 
ARMIGER 

SUDDENLY  Darracott  awoke,  and  sitting  up  stretched 
the  cramp  from  his  stiffened  limbs.  From  the  ghm- 
mering  window-square  came  a  faint  hght,  which  at  first  he 
took  to  be  that  of  the  evening  dimness,  till  in  one  blinding 
shock  he  remembered  last  night  and  his  neglected  watch. 
Yet  in  the  same  moment  came  the  frenzied  attempt  to  flee 
from  consequences  that  follows  hard  on  error;  so  often  he 
had  watched  uselessly  that  this  night,  of  all  nights,  there 
could  have  been  no  signals  from  the  sea.  Then,  praying 
madly  that  whatever  had  happened  during  the  past  night 
might  be  as  though  it  had  not  been,  praying  that  the  destiny 
which  had,  like  all  destiny,  flowed  over  him  from  behind, 
might  be  reversed,  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 
Walking  along  the  cliffs  he  strained  his  eyes  under  the 
penthouse  of  his  outstretched  palm,  while  the  sun  rose. 

Beyond  the  glittering  channel  of  the  Severn  Sea  the 
Welsh  shores  lay  drawn  in  shadowy  lines  of  silver-grey. 
Lundy  was  but  a  faint  blue  cloud  when  seen  from  the 
uplands  where  the  sunlight  was  beginning  to  flash  on  the 
burnished  barley  fields  and  to  blaze  on  the  black  cliffs,  tree- 
veiled  on  their  slopes  or  heather-crowned  in  purple.  Away 
to  the  right,  with  its  head  in  a  veil  of  mist,  stood  Hartland 
Point.  Seawards  the  misty  curtains,  called  the  pride  of  the 
morning,  were  lifting,  while  the  sunlight  pierced  through 
them  here  and  there,  kindling  the  sea  into  laughing  discs 
of  quivering  gold. 

37 


38  A  Man  of  Genius 

Each  wave  that  broke  on  the  rocks  below  was  a  wonder, 
for  the  wind,  now  blowing  steadily  off  the  land,  caught  the 
spray  ere  the  wave  broke,  and  blew  it  backwards  in  silvery 
foam  across  the  translucent  emerald  behind.  Wave  after 
wave  was  thus  caught,  tossed  backward,  and  turned  into 
a  glory  of  sight  and  sound.  The  sea  and  the  wind  were  at 
play  in  the  shimmer  of  mist  and  sunshine;  in  the  roar 
of  the  incoming  tide  that  mingled  with  the  laughing  fall 
of  spray;  in  the  splash  of  foam  on  the  shark 's-tooth  rocks 
beneath  the  encircling  cliffs.  Never  a  moment's  pause  was 
there  in  the  mighty  diapason  of  sound,  never  a  moment  of 
sameness  in  the  shifting  of  sunshine  and  shadow. 

Then,  as  Darracott  reached  the  cliff  called  Damehole, 
he  saw  what,  after  all,  he  had  always  expected  to  see — 
wreckage.  Heaving  at  the  edge  of  the  tide  was  a  mass 
of  spars,  the  broken  fragments  of  a  ship's  fittings,  mingled 
with  bedding.  No  derelict  was  visible,  though  at  low  tide 
her  masts  would  probably  rise  above  the  water-line. 

After  this,  Darracott  knew  he  could  never  be  the  same 
man  again;  for  being  one  of  the  older  volunteers  at  the 
life-saving  station,  no  watch  had  been  kept  on  him  to  see 
that  he  performed  his  duty.  In  the  first  moment  his  mind 
reconstructed  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  the  dragging  anchors, 
the  flares  sent  up  again  and  again,  without  answer  from  the 
shore  where  their  own  kin  slept  as  peacefully  as  the  sea- 
mews.  Yet  he  found  that  at  the  coastguard  look-out,  where 
two  men  had  been  at  watch  all  night,  not  a  light  had  been  seen . 

"But  from  here,"  said  the  spruce  young  boatman  in 
charge,  "she  couldn't  have  been  seen  signalling;  for  if  she 
went  ashore  on  Smoothlands  she  was  never  within  sighting 
range  of  the  point.  At  Quay  her  lights  would  have  been 
seen.    Who  was  there?" 

"I  was;  and  I  never  seed  a  light  of  any  sort,  beyond  the 
ordinary." 


Armiger  39 

"Yet  'twasn't  a  thick  night,  neither." 

"There  wasn't  any  signal  to  be  seen  from  there.  If  there 
had  been,  I  couldn't  have  missed  it;  of  that  I'll  take  my 
oath,"  persisted  Darracott. 

Had  he  been  more  in  the  habit  of  shirking  his  duty, 
Darracott  would  have  repeated  his  untruth  far  less  firmly. 
But  when  all  his  world  was  crashing  into  atoms  around 
him,  the  only  hope  of  being  able  to  exist  at  all  lay  in  denial, 
and  he  clung  to  it  as  a  drowning  man  to  a  spar;  he  would 
have  clung  to  it  in  the  face  of  actual  disproof.  But  of  this 
he  knew  there  was  no  possibility,  since  his  master,  the 
farmer  appointed  by  the  Board  of  Trade  to  be  answerable 
for  the  look-out,  had  doubtless  relied  so  entirely  on  Darra- 
cott's  trustworthy  character  that  he  had  made  no  inspection. 
Almost  worse  than  the  lost  lives  was  the  thought  of  how 
he  had  failed  in  his  trust. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  there  came  ashore  one  body 
and  a  staved-in  boat,  with  the  name  Flying  Foam  on  it. 
Although  no  derelict  had  yet  been  seen,  it  was  ascertained 
that  she  was  a  small  Welsh  coaler  from  Swansea,  with  five 
men  aboard,  whether  ill-found  with  life-saving  appliances 
and  signalling  apparatus  could  not  be  known  until  the 
inquest  on  the  body  of  the  sailor.  It  was  expected  that  the 
other  four  would  probably  come  ashore  on  the  ninth  day. 

Darracott  worked  in  the  hours  that  followed  with  a  vigour 
that  was  almost  superhuman,  trying  instinctively  to  deaden 
his  senses.  There  was  something  already  of  the  furtive 
look  of  a  hunted  thing  about  his  eyes,  for  he  became  aware 
that  a  rumour  was  spreading  that  he  had  not  been  at  the 
rocket-house.  Somehow  the  man  carried  an  unmistakeable 
air  of  doubt  about  him — or  so  at  least  he  himself  fancied. 
But  in  the  thought  of  his  own  trouble,  his  fears  for  Thvrza 
were  heightened  fiftyfold,  and  what  had  been  before  an 
ebullition  of  jealousy  was  now  a  steady  purpose  to  drive 

^  0~  THE 

I  I?' JVC  DC  ITV 


40  A  Man  of  Genius 

him  into  precipitate  and,  therefore  foolish,  action.     He  had 
determined  on  an  appeal  to  Ambrose  Velly. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  Ambrose  had  ridden 
over  to  the  village  of  Sutcombe,  there  to  make  sketches 
and  notes  of  some  of  the  most  remarkable  wood-carving 
to  be  seen  in  any  country  church;  for,  as  behoves  a  lover 
of  Gothic  architecture,  he  was  vastly  enamoured  of  the 
nervous,  life-like  studies  of  plants  and  animals  to  be  found 
in  mediaeval  stone  and  woodwork.  For  some  time  he  had 
been  making  it  a  practice  to  visit  whatever  churches  he 
could  with  portfolio  and  notebook;  he  was,  like  those  of 
his  generation,  keeping  alight  the  Lamp  of  Memory,  in 
the  hope  that  some  day  he  would  be  able  himself  to  light 
the  Lamp  of  Power.  With  this  end  in  view  he  had,  indeed, 
worked  many  hours  in  a  stone-carver's  yard,  only  to  be  dis- 
gusted at  the  rule-of-thumb  methods. 

Within  the  church  at  Sutcombe  there  was  a  cool,  whisper- 
ing silence,  for  the  ancient  building  seemed  reverting  from 
the  hewn  temple  to  the  woodland  shrine,  from  the  later 
creed  of  sacrifice  to  the  earlier  one  of  nature  worship. 
Emerald  moss  was  creeping  up  the  granite  of  the  pillars,  and 
the  carved  bench-ends  were  gnarled  and  eaten  as  if  by  the 
action  of  wind  and  rain.  Against  the  window-panes  green 
boughs  rustled  tidings  of  bird-haunted  forest  peace. 

Through  the  open  doorway  there  came  the  thrill  of  a 
humming  monotone,  that  sounded  like  a  droning  incanta- 
tion to  some  spirit  of  sunlight,  or,  maybe,  some  "Greek 
invocation  to  call  fools  into  a  circle."  Practically  it  only 
meant  that  a  human  voice  was  being  used  as  a  tuning-fork, 
for  after  a  few  seconds  came  the  burst  of  song  that  the 
humming  had  heralded. 

See  what  love,  like  mighty  oceans  ! 

See  what  floods  of  mercy  rise  ! 

See  Him  now,  the  Prince  of  glory, 

To  redeem  our  life  He  dies  I 


Armiger  41 

The  solemn  minor  thirds  of  men's  voices  came  through 
the  porch  as  from  a  tunnel.  They  were  singing  *'  Ebenezer," 
the  hymn  which  has  gathered  into  its  melody,  through  long 
association,  all  the  pain  of  loss  and  the  hope  of  faith.  The 
lad  in  the  church  doorway  vibrated  to  the  deep  tones,  for 
all  his  senses  thrilled  as  easily  to  the  breath  of  joy  and 
pain  as  the  leaves  of  an  aspen  to  the  shiver  of  the  wind. 

Then  he  frowned  and  hastily  shut  the  door  behind  him, 
for  the  sounds  meant  that  the  choir  excursion  was  probably 
on  its  way  to  inspect  the  church,  and  that  his  solitude  would 
be  disturbed.  He  stood  for  a  moment  listening,  till  the 
hymn  changed  into  the  shouts  that  accompany  the  course  of 
a  group  of  young  men  and  boys  through  nutty  hedges,  with 
festoons  of  honeysuckle  to  be  pulled  for  the  grasping.  As 
he  waited,  Ambrose  Velly's  face  cleared,  for  he  heard  them 
passing  down  the  lane  to  the  side  of  the  church. 

It  was  with  a  stealthy,  almost  furtive,  air  that  he  tip-toed 
silently  up  the  aisle  in  the  manner  of  one  approaching 
something  infinitely  precious.  Finally,  at  the  altar  rails,  he 
knelt,  for  in  this  place  of  woodland  shadows,  even  at  mid- 
day, the  light  was  dim.  He  began  to  pass  his  hands  lovingly 
over  the  carved  woodwork,  as  a  blind  man  touches  a  well- 
loved  face.  That  was  not  enough;  ultimately  he  lit  a 
match  to  see  better  into  those  hidden  corners  where  the  old 
workers  often  put  their  most  loving  toil.  It  was,  indeed, 
an  exquisite  thing  before  which  Ambrose  knelt,  being  all 
that  remains  of  a  carved  wooden  screen  that,  for  perfection 
of  design  and  craftsmanship,  must  have  been  of  old  one  of 
the  glories  of  North  Devon,  the  land  of  wood  carvers.     ^ 

Outside  the  church  the  glittering  haze  of  late  summer 
brooded  over  the  lanes,  now  gorgeous  with  the  purple  and 
gold  of  the  August  flowers,  that  from  the  hedges  cast  the 
dust  of  pollen  and  the  scent  of  lush  growth  in  all  directions. 
Butterflies  and   moths   of  all  species,   from  the  homely 


42  A  Man  of  Genius 

meadow-brown  and  cabbage  white  to  the  splendid  peacock 
and  the  silvery  fritillary,  poised  and  fluttered  above  the 
wild  scented  tangle.  As  he  gazed  and  touched,  the  lanes 
outside  came  back  to  the  lad,  just  as,  centuries  ago,  they 
must  have  been  present  to  the  eye  of  the  designer  of  these 
panels.  For  here  was  twining  ivy,  bold  hemp  agrimony, 
whose  fluff  of  pollen  had  flown  against  his  face  half  an 
hour  before,  and  wild  maiden-hair  fern,  that  clings  to  the 
barrenest  walls  of  this  land.  It  was  a  revelation  in  design 
to  Ambrose,  and  he  drew  a  breath  of  satisfaction  as  he 
realised  how  the  skilled  worker  thinks  the  thoughts  of  the 
great  artificer,  nature,  over  again,  for  the  glory  of  his  own 
handiwork. 

The  boy  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  bending  over  his 
drawing-board,  for  he  was  beginning  a  sketch  of  the  panels, 
when  the  door  of  the  church  burst  open  with  a  crash  that 
startled  the  artist,  who  jumped  to  his  feet  at  the  noise. 
The  great  figure  that  advanced  up  the  aisle  was  rumbling 
out  quaint  sounds  that  echoed  eerily,  exotically,  up  the  little 
church,  as  it  hummed  the  rollicking  music  of  "Oberon  in 
Fairy  Land  " — 

We  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine; 

Oh,  then,  what  sport  !     The  wine  runs  short, 

The  blushing  cheeks  with  anger  glow; 

Their  cakes  they  miss,  and  shriek,  "Who's  this?" 

We  answer  nought  but  ho!   ho!   ho! 

"Naught  but  ho,  ho,  ho  ! "  repeated  Dr.  Cleopas  Dayman, 
his  leathery  lips  playing  in  the  mobile  fashion  of  a  baby's. 
He  was  a  huge  man,  big-boned  and  heavy,  with  a  broad 
paunch  that  he  loved  to  cover  with  resplendent  waistcoats, 
and  a  wide  face  that  glowed  in  its  setting  of  silvery  hair 
like  the  polished  pink  lip  of  a  great  sea  shell.  He  was 
a  skilful  rider,  otherwise  the  two  stout  roadsters  who 
carried  him  to  his  patients  would  never  have  been  able  for 


Armiger  43 

their  work.  In  a  house  he  always  plunged  straight  for  the 
nearest  chair,  sofa,  bed,  or  bench;  out-of-doors  he  was 
always  seen  mounted  on  a  great  horse.  Dr.  Dayman, 
in  fact,  sat  through  life,  and  "as  tall  as  Dr.  Dayman's 
horse"  had  become  as  common  as  the  familiar  phrase  in 
these  parts,  "as  dark  as  a  Welcombe  woman." 

With  wide-awake  hat  pushed  far  back,  and  great  legs 
a-straddle,  he  marched  up  the  aisle. 

"Hullo,  boy,"  he  cried,  desisting  from  Oberon,  "what 
are  you  up  to  here?  Hum,  hum,  not  so  bad,"  he  said,  in- 
specting the  drawing.  "So,"  continued  he,  dropping  heav- 
ily on  the  cushioned  seat  of  a  pew,  "you're  back  again.  And 
I  hear  you  like  the  building  trade  fine.  Well,  it's  a  bit 
hard  on  you.     But — 

There's  many  a  dark  and  cloudy  morning 
Turns  out  to  be  a  sunshiny  day. 

And  there's  one  sure  thing  in  this  life  that,  in  ninety-nine 
cases  out  of  a  hundred,  a  strong  desire  finds  a  way.  You'll 
get  back  to  your  work  somehow,  I'll  take  my  oath.  You 
like  it,  don't  you  ?  " 

"Like  it,"  burst  out  Ambrose,  "why  it's  the  very  King 
of  arts  ! " 

"So  it  is,  boy,  so  it  is.  A  great  architect  is  the  master- 
artist,  for  he  has  to  make  every  one  of  the  arts  serve  him." 

"My  old  master  used  to  say  that  the  ideal  architect  must 
study  everything;  form,  even  the  human,  for  that  is  the 
most  perfect;  emotion,  to  know  the  most  noble;  matter, 
for  in  that  he  works;  colour,  for  by  light  and  shade  he  must 
express  what  the  universe  means  to  him.  That's  what  he 
told  me  once." 

"Ay,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  bending  shaggy  brows  at  the 
youth  who  stood  in  front  of  him,  "you'd  give  your  eye- 
tooth  to  be  a  great  artist,  I  see.  A  lusty  chap,  too,  and 
lusty  when  you  were  dropped,  as  I  remember  perfectly." 


44  A  Man  of  Genius 

The  doctor  laughed,  recalling  the  spirit  of  prophecy  that 
had  come  upon  him,  when  he  had  ushered  the  boy  into  the 
world.  He  remembered  now  his  own  words,  spoken  as  he 
handled  the  little  body  and  tested  the  pliant  members  with 
his  great  finger  and  thumb. 

"Dammy,"  said  he,  "this  lad's  made  for  the  joys  of  earth. 
For  the  joys  of  earth,  or  nobody  ever  was.  He'll  suck  the 
sweetness  out  of  a  posy  or  two,  I'll  go  bail." 

"Just  you  believe  in  yourself  and  your  own  desire,"  he 
said,  "and  you'll  get  back  to  the  work  you  love.  Argent,  a 
chevron  between  three  castles  or,"  he  continued  medita- 
tively.    "It's  bad  heraldry,  but  do  you  know  what  it  is ?  " 

"It's  the  Velly  arms,"  said  Ambrose. 

"Spurious,  of  course,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  "but  after  a 
fashion,  I  suppose  you  can  call  yourself  Armiger.  And 
none  the  better  for  that,  mind  you.  You're  none  the 
more  likely  to  succeed  for  having  the  blood  of  the  petty 
squirearchy  in  your  veins.  What  was  your  mother's 
name  ?  " 

Dr.  Dayman  was  great  on  breed  in  men  and  strains  in 
horses. 

"Dark,  De  Arc,  I've  heard  say.  Weavers  and  smiths, 
I  believe,"  said  Ambrose. 

"That's  better,  that's  better.  Huguenots,  that'll  be. 
You  might  get  the  fine  artist  hand  that  way." 

"But  it  says  the  Velly  family  are  extinct  on  the  monu- 
ment at  Hartland." 

"Oh,  a  collateral  line,  yours,  perhaps.  But  what's 
brought  you  over  here  as  far  as  Sutcombe?  It's  a  good 
ride  from  Long  Furlong.  I  saw  your  horse  tied  up  outside, 
so  I  came  in  to  see  what  you  were  about." 

Ambrose  grinned,  for  the  doctor's  curiosity  was  as  in- 
satiable as  a  child's. 

"I  wanted  to  draw  these  panels.     They're  so  fine,"  he 


Armiger  45 

said,  touching  them  lovingly.  "There's  the  plant  that  is 
growing  outside." 

"Ay,  hemp  agrimony.  Carved  here  by  hands  that  are 
long  since  dead,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  who  under  his  rough 
exterior  was  a  man  of  fine  taste  and  cultured  instincts. 

"That's  the  wonderful  part  of  it,"  Ambrose  blurted  out. 
"But  the  earth's  the  oldest,  after  all.  I  thought  of  that 
t'other  day  when  I  kicked  a  clod  to  pieces.  It's  a  deal 
older  than  this  oak-work,  and  yet  we  like  this  because  it's  so 
precious  old,  but  we  never  think  of  the  earth  being  old." 

His  cheeks  flushed  and  his  hands  trembled.  Like  a 
virgin  at  the  door  of  the  temple  of  life,  Ambrose  felt  him- 
self drawing  the  curtain  of  the  world  of  thought,  that  world 
of  infinite  renunciation  and  lasting  peace. 

"Hullo,  hullo,"  said  Dr.  Dayman.  "What's  this?  Can 
'ee  think  then,  lad  ?  " 

But  Ambrose  had  become  sheepish  again.  He  wanted 
to  talk  of  the  interest  of  design,  of  the  wave-forms  he  had 
found  in  stone-work,  but  he  dared  not  begin,  partly  from 
shyness,  and  partly  from  that  inability  to  marshal  his  ideas 
which  is  the  bane  of  the  slow-moving  country  mind. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  seeing  that  no  answer  was  forth- 
coming, "it's  the  human  being  who  put  brain  and  heart  into 
his  work  that  interests  us  in  old  work,  I  reckon.  The  man 
that  Avrought  it  is  in  this  oak- work.  That's  why  we  love  it 
more  than  the  clod  of  earth." 

Ambrose  sighed  with  the  satisfaction  of  solution,  as  they 
began  to  walk  round  the  church. 

"But,"  said  Ambrose,  "what  troubles  me  is  how  we've 
lost  the  power  of  putting  ourselves  into  our  work.  That's 
just  what  we  can't  do.  Look  how  crisp  that  leafage  is,"  he 
said,  pointing  to  a  carved  bench-end.  "All  we  can  do  is  to 
copy,  and  lifelessly  at  that." 

"We've   eaten   of   the   tree   of   knowledge,   boy,"   said 


46  A  Man  of  Genius 

Dr.  Dayman;  "they  were  eating  of  the  tree  of  life.  They 
were  children  carving  because  they  loved  to  do  it;  but  we 
are  learned  archaeologists,  who  know  everything  about  the 
angel  fashions  in  dress  of  the  fourteenth  century — and 
nothing  about  angels  as  they  are  to-day." 

"We  can  never  become  children  again,  I  suppose,"  said 
Ambrose  sadly. 

"No;  we've  got  to  become  men.  When  we  can  love 
beauty  as  a  man  loves,  we  shall  have  the  beautiful,  manlike 
things  that  only  a  man  can  make.  But  there  !  the  Sublime 
and  Beautiful  isn't  my  province." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  as  Macaulay  said  of  Horace  Walpole, 
Dr.  Dayman's  department  was  rather  the  Odd ;  he  loved  a 
collection  of  toby  jugs  infinitely  more  than  the  dusky 
shadows  of  cathedral  arches,  if  the  truth  must  be  told. 

"And,"  said  he,  pointing  to  the  fine  bench-ends  of  carved 
oak,  "there's  a  deal  more  of  humanity  than  that  of  the 
craftsman  in  a  place  like  this;  for  where  the  artificers  gave 
skill,  the  gentle  family  gave  wealth.  There  you  have  the 
arms  of  the  Prideaux  and  Granville  families,  and  the  Com- 
munion Service  was  given  by  the  Prideaux  ancestors.  The 
whole  place  is  writ  over  with  the  men  of  the  past.  You 
want,  as  they  did,  to  write  your  name  in  stone.    Isn't  it  so  ?  " 

Ambrose  nodded. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,"  said  Dr.  Dayman  as  they  stood 
in  the  porch.  "  When  I  was  a  lad  I  wanted  to  be  a  painter, 
but  when  my  father  drove  me  to  it  I  became  a  sawbones, 
and  felt  like  a  Michael  Angelo  studying  form  whenever 
I  handled  a  leg-bone.  Lord  !  what  a  fool  I  was.  But  do 
you  know  where  the  folly  came  in?" 

"No,"  said  Ambrose. 

"In  not  sticking  to  what  I  loved,"  said  he,  emphasising 
his  point  with  a  dig  in  Ambrose's  ribs.  "  '  Go  back  to  your 
gallipots,  John  Keats,'  said  they.    And  I  was  fool  enough 


Armiger  47 

to  go.  Don't  you  stick  to  your  furrows  too  long.  But 
they'll  teach  you  what  you  won't  learn  from  any  one  else. 
What's  outside  there?"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  horizon. 

"Sky  and  moor  and  fields  and  sea,"  said  Ambrose. 

"Sky  and  moor  and  fields  and  sea,"  repeated  the  doctor. 
"Just  so.     And  let  them  be  your  masters  for  the  time." 

The  two  stood  looking  at  the  mossy  tombstones  outside. 

"Come  over,"  said  the  doctor,  "to  Hartland,  and  see 
me  some  evening.  I've  some  new  pictures  to  show  you. 
And  you  haven't  been  to  see  the  Westaways  yet.  Why 
not  ?  "  he  said,  looking  keenly  in  the  lad's  face. 

Mr.  Westaway  was  the  Vicar  of  Hartland,  and  from  him 
had  come  the  book  on  architecture  that  had  carried  all 
Ambrose  Velly's  longings  into  one  channel. 

"I  couldn't,"  he  answered,  looking  away.  "You  see,  it 
was  they  who  put  me  on  the  path  like,  and  now  I've  turned 
back.     It  seems  ungrateful,  but  father  forced  it  on  me." 

"Ay,  I  see.  Full  of  high-falutin',  as  a  lad  should  be. 
Well,  Ambrose,  you're  a  nice  boy,  and  I  wouldn't  say  but 
what  you'll  be  a  fine  man,  some  day.  You'll  drop  some  of 
the  high-falutin'  on  the  way,  but  you're  the  better  for  it 
now.     Only,  I'd  go  and  see  the  Westaways,  if  I  were  you." 

"Mr.  Westaway  gave  me  my  first  lessons  in  mathematics 
and  Miss  Damaris  first  showed  me,  in  her  night-class,  what 
a  fine  picture  means." 

"Ay,"  said  the  doctor,  "so  she  did.  I  wonder  whether 
she  was  a  fool  to  do  it?" 

"Princess  Damaris,  a  fool  !"  exclaimed  Ambrose. 

"Well,  for  all  she's  Princess  Damaris,  yet  she's  a  woman, 
and  there's  apt  to  be  a  strain  of  folly  in  'em.  And  as  for 
petticoats,  just  you  keep  clear  of  'em,  till  you're  my  age," 
he  shouted  back,  till  in  the  curves  of  the  lane  his  leit  motif 
of  Ho!   ho!   ho!   was  lost. 

"The  old  buffoon,"  said  Ambrose  to  himself.     Yet  he 


48  A  Man  of  Genius 

felt  like  a  flower  expanding  its  leaves  in  the  sunshine;  for, 
after  all,  it  was  delightful  to  be  at  home  again,  where  a 
little  court  of  admirers,  including  even  this  old  free-talker, 
paid  toll  to  his  charm. 

A  few  hours  later  Ambrose  had  left  Sutcombe,  buried  in 
its  mossy  woodland  behind  him,  and  with  Bradworthy  on 
his  right  hand,  was  entering  the  wild,  bleak  corner  of  North 
Devon  that  is  buttressed  by  the  cliffs  of  Hartland,  the 
Promontory  of  Hercules  of  the  ancients. 

Over  Bursdon  Moor  the  wind  shivered  from  off  the  sea, 
whistling  shrewdly  through  the  stunted  furze-bushes  and 
stirring  the  tufts  of  bell-heather  that  grew  along  the  low 
stone  walls.  The  sunset  light  gleamed  on  the  surface 
of  the  road  that  wound,  like  a  trail  of  white  ribbon,  up  one 
side  of  the  hill  and  down  the  other.  On  either  hand 
stretched  the  moor,  reed-clad  and  furze-dotted,  with  vivid 
patches  marking  the  "meshes"  or  "mires,"  perilous  to  the 
bullocks  of  the  twelve  farmers  who  share  the  grazing  rights 
of  the  moor.  Lundy  Island,  out  beyond,  lay  stretched  a 
purple  mirage  against  the  sunset  bar  of  golden  red  that 
bounded  the  western  horizon,  dividing  the  silver  of  the  sea 
from  the  angry  dun  colour  of  the  sky,  and  turning  the 
reeds  at  the  edge  of  the  moor  into  tendrils  of  waving  soot 
against  the  flame  of  its  line  of  fire. 

Presently  out  of  the  purple  swung  a  globe  of  golden 
light,  swung  for  a  moment  and  passed,  like  the  visible  sign 
of  a  watcher  who  slumbers  not.  It  was  but  Lundy  Light, 
yet  in  the  midst  of  nature's  sleep  of  hidden  power,  in  the 
menace  of  the  grey  waters  and  the  whistle  of  the  chill 
wind,  this  puny  sign  of  human  forethought  brought  a  quick 
catching  of  the  breath;  not  so  helpless  after  all  the  men 
who  drag*  a  living  from  the  rock-bound  shore,  the  salt  cliff 
pastures,  and  the  sedgy  marshes  inland. 

It  is  a  strange  land,  that  corner  of  Devon  through  which 


Armiger  49 

he  rode,  a'  land  that  more  than  any  other  part  of  the  west 
recalls  the  loneliness  of  the  scenery  suggested  in  the  Book 
of  Job.  Bare-breasted  to  the  starlight  and  sunshine  lie  the 
quaggy  moorlands  and  half-regained  fields,  intersected  by 
long  white  roads  that  wind  past  ancient  farm-houses,  built 
with  cob  walls  many  feet  in  thickness,  each  with  the  stone 
hepping-stock  outside  the  door.  All  the  westward  roads 
diverge  towards  the  headland  that  gazes  seawards  like  a 
colossal  fortress  set  against  the  raging  of  the  Atlantic 
breakers. 

In  summer  the  air  has  a  quality  of  intense  purity  that 
imparts  an  eastern  brilliance  to  the  stars.  But  over  the 
cliffs,  at  all  times  of  the  year,  the  sea-mist  may  come  in 
great  waves,  blotting  out  farm  after  farm  in  a  curtain  of 
silvery  foam,  that  covers  the  thatch  with  a  gem-like  moisture 
and  encourages  the  growth  of  lichen  on  the  slate-roofs  and 
of  clinging  ferns  in  every  cranny.  A  land  it  is  where  nature 
visibly  weaves  the  garment  by  which  we  know  her,  a  land 
where,  in  turns,  the  winds  hurtle,  the  sea-fog  creeps,  the 
stars  gleam  and  the  sun  burns. 

As  Ambrose  turned  the  corner  of  the  lane  that  leads  to 
Long  Furlong,  he  could  see  the  light  thrown  across  the  road 
in  a  long  ray  from  the  open  door  of  Vinnicombe's  cottage. 
In  the  brightness  of  it,  he  could  also  discern  a  man's  figure 
leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  farm-garden,  apparently 
waiting  there  for  some  one.  As  he  drew  near  he  recognised 
the  hero  of  the  day's  excitement,  the  labourer  supposed  to 
have  been  on  the  look-out  at  Hartland  Quay. 

The  cheeping  voices  of  children,  like  the  cries  of  tiny 
birds,  issued  from  the  tightly-shuttered  cottage  room. 
From  where  Darracott  stood  he  could  hear  every  word 
they  said,  as  they  sang  in  a  ''round." 

"Daddy  in  the  pulpit,"  chirped  one  voice,  llule-like  in 
its  tone. 


50  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Wouldn't  say  his  prayers,"  brayed  a  second. 

"Down  came  the  devil,"  yelled  a  third. 

"And  knocked  'en  downstairs,"  concluded  every  one. 

Darracott  instinctively  chopped  with  his  hand,  and  off 
went  the  head  of  a  wild  arum  berry  in  the  cottage,  as  the 
shadows  of  three  little  heads  nodded  on  the  brightly  lit 
wall  revealed  by  the  open  door.  It  seemed  strange  to  him 
that  the  laughter  of  children  should  have  the  temerity  to 
sound  so  gaily  in  the  close  neighbourhood  of  his  tortured  heart. 

Then  he  came  forward  to  meet  Ambrose  at  the  corner 
where  he  must  turn  into  the  yard. 

"Might  I  have  a  word  with  you,  sir?"  said  Darracott, 
putting  up  his  hand  to  the  younger  man's  bridle-rein. 

"With  me?"  said  Ambrose,  reining  in  suddenly  in 
response  to  the  urgency  in  Darracott's  face.  "Why,"  he 
exclaimed,  after  a  second's  inspection  to  make  sure,  "you're 
the  man  there's  been  all  this  talk  about  to-day!  Well,  I 
don't  know  that  I  am  surprised  at  your  coming.  I  sup- 
pose you  thought  you  would  take  the  bull  by  the  horns." 

Ambrose  Velly's  tone  was  half  jesting,  but  his  eyes  grew 
hard  with  determination  and  something  that  closely  re- 
sembled scorn. 

Darracott  noticed  the  hardening  face  above  him,  but 
was  completely  at  a  loss  to  understand  it.  Yet  his  own 
anger  rose  in  answer  to  Velly's  feeling  of  aversion. 

"I  wanted  to  speak  to  'ee  about  something  that's  hard  to 
speak  about  betwixt  man  and  man,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Well,  get  on,  man,  and  have  it  over,"  said  Ambrose,  dis- 
mounting. "Come,  walk  down  the  road  and  have  your 
say.     I  reckon  I  can  give  a  guess  at  what  you  want." 

"  'Tis  Thyrza  Braund  and  what  I  seed  last  night — her 
dancing  to  your  fiddling." 

"Why,"  said  Ambrose,  standing  still  in  amazement, "  what 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  speaking  to  me  like  this?    And 


Armiger  5 1 

what  has  it  got  to  do  with  you  what  Thyrza  and  I  may 
choose  to  do  ?  " 

"Ay,  that's  what  I  said  to  myself,  too.  But  now  that 
I'm  in  trouble  myself,  I  know  how  hard  'tis  to  bear.  I'll 
not  stand  aside  and  see  wrong  done." 

''Wrong  done!"  exclaimed  Ambrose  hotly. 

"Wait  a  bit,  sir.  I  said  to  myself,  she's  but  a  child  and 
he's  but  a  lad,  and  they  don't  know  what's  in  the  heart  of 
men  and  women.  For  I  love  her  dearly,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  her  come  to  harm.  Last  night,  her  let  fall  some 
words  that  made  me  think,  and  then,  when  I  seed  'ee  with 
her,  I  knowed  what  she  meant.  God  know's  there's  trouble 
enough  in  the  world,  without  any  more  coming  for  want  of 
a  little  plain  speaking!" 

"Look  here,  Darracott.  I  should  have  thought  if  you 
cared  for  her,  you  wouldn't  want  her  name  bandied  about 
same  as  this  is." 

"I  thought  of  that,  too;  but  when  you  see  a  body  sinking 
you  don't  ask  where  you're  to  grip.  I  want  'ee  to  leave  the 
cheeld  alone.     She  isn't  a  mate  for  the  likes  of  you." 

"Good  God,  man,  what  harm  should  I  do  her?" 

"  I'm  a  man  and  you're  a  boy  and  she's  a  cheeld.  That's 
where  it  all  is,  sir.  And  nobody  sees  so  plain  as  folks  that 
love." 

"You  think  she  cares  for  me?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"I  know  it,"  answered  Darracott  quietly. 

The  idea  was  undoubtedly  pleasant  to  Ambrose,  more 
especially  as  it  fell  in  with  certain  suspicions  of  his  own. 
He  saw  a  mental  picture  of  a  bright  personality  that  flashed 
triumphantly  through  life;  it  was  himself,  and  he  held  him- 
self very  upright  in  the  joy  of  the  moment. 

Then  he  laughed. 

"W\v,  what  a  fool  you  must  be,  to  come  and  talk  like 
this  to  me,  Darracott  !    A  stark,  staring  lunatic." 


52  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I've  no  hopes  for  myself;  only  thought  for  her,  sir." 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  anyway,"  said  Ambrose  heartily. 
"And  I'm  not  a  cad,  though  you  think  so.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honour  that  I'll  be  as  careful  of  Thyrza  as  you  could 
be  yourself.  There,  will  that  satisfy  you  ?  Why,  I  wouldn't 
hurt  a  little  kitten  like  that  for  worlds!" 

He  felt  Armiger,  indeed,  in  the  warmth  of  his  own 
honourable  intentions. 

"And  besides,  I've  other  things  to  think  about.  You're 
in  trouble,  and  so  you  go  and  run  your  head  into  an  imag- 
inary mare's  nest.  Your  fears  are  air-born,  man;  air-born, 
I  assure  you." 

For  a  moment  his  manner  bore  a  ludicrous  resemblance 
to  Dr.  Dayman's,  for  the  lad  had  an  unconscious  habit 
of  catching  the  tricks  of  voice  and  manner  of  any  one  with 
whom  he  came  in  contact. 

"Anyway,"  he  continued,  "in  my  mother's  house  Thyrza 
is  in  as  safe  a  nest  as  she  would  be  in  yours,  Darracott. 
That  I  can  promise  you,"  he  said,  shaking  back  his  head 
with  a  pleasant  sensation  of  shedding  peace  all  around  him. 

"Thank  you,  sir,  for  listening,"  said  Darracott,  turning 
back.  He  had  gained  at  least  a  little  confidence  that  the 
lad  was  forewarned. 

"Here,  Darracott,  shake  hands,"  said  Ambrose,  holding 
out  his  hand,  "for  you're  a  fine  chap.  And,  for  the  matter 
of  your  own  trouble,  to-day's  wreck  and  all  the  bother 
there'll  be,  don't  give  it  another  thought,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  though  I  mean  now  to  tell  you  what  I  know. 
I  thought  'twas  for  that  you  came  to  see  me  to-night." 

Darracott  stood  still,  with  the  stony  expression  he  wore 
when  the  wreck  was  mentioned. 

"It's  a  damned  bad  system  to  give  a  man  a  five  hours' 
look-out  at  night  when  he's  been  at  work  all  day.  You're 
the  victim  of  a  system.    That's  what  I  say  about  it." 


Armiger  53 

"What  do  you  mean — about  knowing?"  asked  Darracott 
slowly. 

"You  weren't  on  the  look-out  last  night,"  said  Ambrose 
quietly,  "and  I  know  it." 

"I  was  at  the  rocket-house,"  said  Darracott  dully. 

"Not  at  two  o'clock,  then.  For  I  was  too  excited  to  get 
any  sleep  last  night,  and  I  walked  over  to  Quay  and  looked 
in  at  the  rocket-station.  There  was  no  one  there  then.  It 
was  coming  in  to  gusts  of  rain;  but  if  they'd  sent  up  distress 
signals,  a  man  on  watch  at  the  Quay  would  have  seen  them." 

"They  didn't  at  the  Point  look-out." 

"  'Twasn't  within  their  sighting  range.  But  you  may  be 
perfectly  certain  that  what  I  know  I  shall  keep  to  myself. 
And,  as  for  Thyrza,  she'll  probably  make  you  a  hero, 
especially  if  folks  take  sides  against  you  a  bit.  That's  a 
woman's  way.  Anyhow,  you've  got  to  live  this  down.  But 
I  shan't  give  you  away." 

As  Ambrose  turned  away  from  the  misery  in  the  man's 
face,  something  fluttered  painfully  in  his  own  throat.  But 
the  pity  of  the  human  spectacle  was  soon  lost  in  the  pleasant 
reflection  that  Darracott's  devotion  weighed  with  Thyrza 
as  dust  in  the  balance,  compared  with  the  magic  of  his  own 
indifference. 

From  a  certain  field-gate  at  Long  Furlong,  by  sitting  on 
the  topmost  bar,  one  could  see  the  strip  of  sea  where  glide 
the  ships,  leaving  a  trail  of  black  smoke  behind  them.  Out 
there  to  Ambrose  Velly's  boyish  eyes  had  been  the  place 
where  men  fight  and  win,  gaining  wealth  and  power,  seeing 
strange  sights  and  meeting  strange  enemies;  out  there  was 
the  world,  far  from  the  dull  furrows  of  the  fields  and  the 
drear}'  rustle  of  the  reeds.  Yet  here  in  these  very  furrows 
was  Ambrose  eating  of  the  tree  of  life.  Or  was  it  the  tree 
of  knowledge  ? 


CHAPTER  IV 
HESPERUS 

ONE  evening,  a  few  weeks  later,  the  Rev.  David 
Westaway  was  sitting  in  his  study  at  Hartland 
Vicarage  before  the  roll-top  American  desk  that  stood  in 
his  mind  as  a  symbol  of  parish  affairs.  He  leant  back  in 
his  revolving  chair,  looking  down  the  length  of  the  room 
which  contained  indications  of  the  varying  phases  of  his 
sixty-one  years  of  life.  Floored  with  carefully-fitted  planks 
of  polished  wood,  it  was  furnished  on  one  side  with  a  sort 
of  counter  filled  with  trays  of  coins  mounted  on  velvet; 
above  this  stood  glass  shelves  loaded  with  specimens  of 
china,  especially  Spode,  Barum,  and  Plymouth  ware. 
Facing  these,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  were  book- 
shelves stocked  largely  with  scientific  handbooks,  from 
chemistry  and  archaeology  up  to  biology  and  psychology. 
There  was  a  curious  absence  of  theology  in  any  form,  un- 
less a  pile  of  Hihhert  Journals  came  under  that  head.  In 
strange  juxtaposition  to  the  material  science  of  the  West 
a  row  of  works  dealing  with  the  wisdom  of  the  East  occupied 
the  dark  corner  by  the  wall.  There  was  the  Rig  Veda  by 
the  Upanishads,  and  the  Sutra  of  the  Great  Renunciation 
of  Gautama  Buddha  next  door  to  the  Koran  and  the  Light 
of  Asia.  Appropriately  enough,  the  corner  which  sheltered 
these  aliens  in  a  country  vicarage  was  the  whole  length  of 
the  room  away  from  the  parish  desk,  for  the  study,  which 
ran  the  width  of  the  house,  had  windows  that  faced  one 

54 


Hesperus  55 

another,  the  front  looking  out  on  the  square  of  Hartland 
village,  and  the  back  on  a  garden,  now  full  of  the  gorgeous 
colours  of  "  red-hot  pokers  "  and  late  sunflowers.  The 
desk  looked  out  on  the  town  place,  but  the  Eastern  sages 
were  tucked  away  in  the  garden  corner.  But  the  most 
significant  part  of  Mr.  Westaway's  library  was  not  on  these 
shelves  at  all;  it  was  packed  into  the  lower  drawers  of  the 
bureau,  and  was  neither  scientific  nor  theological. 

At  the  age  of  sixty  most  men  show  on  which  side  of  the 
battlefield  of  life  they  have  ranged  themselves,  for  they  are 
then,  not  only  men  who  have  lost  or  won — whatever  they 
set  out  to  gain — but  they  are  also  conscious  of  their  own 
success  or  failure.  In  Mr.  Westaway's  lined  face,  with  the 
deep  wrinkle  of  depression  trenching  the  base  of  the  pouchy 
cheeks,  there  was  the  look  of  a  man  who  feared  he  was 
beaten.  Yet,  in  the  wiry  shock  of  white  hair,  in  the  keen 
glance  of  his  eyes,  there  was  yet  a  spice  left  of  the  power 
that  grips  circumstances  by  the  throat  and  forces  them  to 
yield  their  treasure  of  opportunity.  It  was  evident,  then, 
that  if  Mr.  Westaway  were  beaten,  he  had,  at  any  rate, 
not  yet  finished  fighting. 

Descended  from  a  line  of  scholars,  schoolmasters  and 
clerics  for  the  most  part,  he  had  been  a  slow  youth,  whose 
"late  spring"  was  regarded  as  a  sign  of  stupidity  by  his 
relatives.  The  Church  seemed  his  fit  destiny,  for  his 
steady  virtues  would  make  him  an  eminently  respectable 
parish  priest,  and  on  a  moderate  amount  of  preferment  he 
could  certainly  count,  since  several  of  his  connections  had 
reached  the  safe  harbourage  of  a  Cathedral  Close.  Hence 
it  was  almost  without  volition  of  his  own  that  David  Westa- 
way found  himself  passing  from  one  country  rectory  to 
another,  none  of  them  possessing  anything  to  speak  of 
in  the  way  of  income. 

But  five  years  ago,  by  the  death  of  a  north-country  uncle 


5 6  A  Man  of  Genius 

who  had  amassed  a  fortune  as  a  wool  manufacturer,  he  had 
become  a  rich  man,  a  very  rich  man  according  to  his  own 
frugal  estimate.  For  he  had  known  what  it  is  to  have  to  be 
careful  of  the  coals.  The  money,  chielEly  mine  shares  and 
railway  stock,  carried  with  it  no  duties,  according  to  the 
modern  habit  of  reckoning  business  responsibilities,  and 
merely  gave  Mr.  Westaway  an  opportunity  of  gratifying  his 
own  cultured  tastes.  He  counted  himself,  therefore,  an 
exceptionally  happy  man. 

But  the  issue  proved  quite  otherwise ;  for  after  his  tastes 
in  numismatics  had  been  gratified  by  the  purchase  of  a  few 
trays  of  coins,  and  his  virtuoso-like  sensibilities  soothed  by 
a  china  plate  or  two,  he  found  that  these  delights  only 
scratched  the  surface  of  his  mind,  for  he  was  in  truth  made 
rather  of  the  stuff  of  a  thinker  than  an  artist. 

All  his  life  he  had  known  that  the  walls  of  the  Church  he 
served  were  being  battered  by  attacks  from  every  side.  Yet 
he  was  aware  that,  as  an  honest  man,  his  daily  bread  de- 
pended on  his  performing  the  duties  of  church  service  and 
prayer  with  a  measure  of  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  these 
things.  Wife  and  child,  house  and  home,  are  wonderfully 
narcotic  to  the  brain  and,  like  many  another,  Mr.  Westaway 
deliberately  refused  to  know  what  would  either  have  made 
him  a  pauper  or  a  conscious  charlatan.  Then,  too,  the 
loving-kindness  of  his  nature  was  satisfied  by  the  hallowed 
spirit  of  the  past,  no  less  than  by  the  charitable  oppor- 
tunities of  the  present,  and  both  lay  within  the  power  of 
the  Church  to  impart. 

But  his  newly-acquired  wealth  gave  him  a  sense  of  mental 
freedom,  of  spiritual  boldness  and,  like  a  woman  who  after 
years  of  reputed  ugliness  suddenly  finds  herself  transformed 
into  a  beauty  by  a  Paquin  gown,  Mr.  Westaway  flowered 
mentally,  giving  way  at  last  to  his  desire  to  face  the  truth, 
or  what  was  accounted  truth  by  his  own  age. 


Hesperus  57 

And  now  to  him  it  seemed,  in  his  depression,  that  all  his 
life  had  been  a  mere  serving  of  the  cult  of  conventional 
respectability,  of  no  more  concern  with  man's  little  span  of 
daylight,  or  with  his  long  curve  of  darkness,  than  the 
beating  of  a  tom-tom.  Thirty  years  of  a  man's  short  life 
thrown  away;  it  was  a  bitter  reflection  and  still  more  bitter 
when,  as  Mr.  Westaway  fancied,  the  habits  of  a  lifetime  have 
become  like  a  skin  which  it  is  agony  to  slough  off.  The 
parish  visits,  the  preparation  of  sermons,  the  walk  to  church 
with  sober  gait  and  eyes,  if  not  commercing  with  the  skies, 
at  any  rate,  decently  cast  down;  without  these  what  was 
there  left  him  to  do  ?  Without  such  tasks,  he  would  count 
himself  nothing  but  a  shadow  in  a  world  of  realities. 

As  he  sat  leaning  back  in  the  quiet  room,  reviewing  the 
destructive  work  of  the  past  months,  he  asked  himself  what 
account  he  could  give  of  the  non-faith,  or  rather  of  the 
faith,  that  was  in  him.  For  the  attitude  of  mind  perforce 
adopted  by  him  during  his  clerical  career,  had  made  it  as 
impossible  for  him  to  live  without  some  form  of  faith  as  it 
would  have  been  for  him  to  breathe  without  air. 

To-day  the  axes  that  hack  at  the  structure  of  the  Christian 
Church  are  being  forged  everywhere;  in  the  historian's 
study,  in  the  chemist's  laboratory,  in  the  market-place, 
and  in  the  lecture-room  of  the  student  of  comparative 
religion.  It  was  this  last  that  struck  the  most  fatal  blow  at 
Mr.  Westaway 's  faith.  For  the  records  of  the  historian 
cannot  touch  the  spirit  that  speaks  in  the  Gospels,  even 
though  they  be  no  more  than  literary  monuments;  the 
chemist  can  only  show  that  beyond  the  physical  world  we 
know,  there  are  yet  finer  and  finer  phases  of  matter  than 
"this  muddy  vesture  of  decay,"  and  the  man  of  the  world 
who  points  to  empty  churches  and  millions  deaf  to  the 
clanging  from  the  church  spires  has  yet  to  confess  that  this 
state  of  things  leaves  him  dissatisfied. 


58  A  Man  of  Genius 

But  in  the  comparative  study  of  religion  Mr.  Westaway. 
saw  the  Church  of  the  East  placed  over  against  the  Churchi 
of  the  West,  and  found  that  while  the  former  still  tried  to 
preach  its  message  of  purity,  the  latter  had  largely  forgottem 
its  message  of  love  in  the  labours  of  the  gigantic  organisa- 
tions which  men  call  the  Catholic,  Protestant  and  Greekl 
Churches.  For  to  him  the  priesthoods  stood  but  for  the 
inculcating  of  habits  of  obedience  and  deference,  of  mental 
slavery  in  the  service  of  a  timid  civilisation.  "This  is  the|i? 
way,  walk  ye  in  it,"  said  the  Churches.  Mr.  Westaway 
found  that  although  he  had  been  walking  that  way,  he  did 
not  like  it.  For  of  what  man  really  craves  to  know:  of 
whence  he  comes,  whither  he  goes,  and  why  he  lives  at  all, 
it  seemed  to  Mr.  Westaway  that  the  Church  was  attempt- 
ing to  give  but  the  vaguest  of  answers.  And,  said  he  to 
himself,  men  have  to-day  lost  the  inclination  to  continue 
burrowing  in  a  rubbish  heap  for  the  jewel  that  their  fore- 
fathers told  them  was  hidden  there. 

At  this  point  in  the  Vicar's  reflections  the  door  opened 
and  Ambrose  was  announced.  It  was  with  a  feeling  that 
a  sunbeam  had  come  into  the  room  that  Mr.  Westaway  got 
up  to  greet  the  young  man.  He  had  often  felt  that  it 
would  be  the  unpaid  lessons  given  to  lads  like  this  that 
would  add  up  to  his  credit  account.  Besides,  Ambrose 
had  always  been  his  favourite  pupil;  for  it  had  been  a 
delight  to  him  to  see  the  keen  eyes  flash,  the  bright  head 
toss  backwards,  when  a  law  of  number  leapt  to  his  mind  I 
within.  Mr.  Westaway  rejoiced  in  Ambrose  Velly's  vivid 
nature,  in  his  craving  for  emotion,  and  his  capacity  for 
getting  it  from  thought — one  of  the  rarest  and  most  enviable 
gifts  in  the  world.  It  even  delighted  the  Vicar  to  look 
at  the  sheen  of  hair  and  eyes  and  skin,  young  and  clear, 
like  the  brain  within. 

"Well,  Ambrose,"  he  said  as  they  sat  down,  "it*s  two 

J 


Hesperus  59 

years  since  you  have  been  here.  And  now  you're  home 
again.  I'm  sorry  for  the  cause  of  it;  but  no  one's  the 
worse  for  having  some  tangible  evil  to  struggle  with  some- 
times.    What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

''Learning  to  draw  up  sjiecifications  mostly.  Figuring 
for  ever,  areas  and  strains  and  weights — and  cheapness." 

"Disappointed?" 

"Not  a  bit,  sir  !  For  that's  what  I  had  to  learn  first. 
My  master  didn't  talk  much,  but  he  knew;  and  now  and 
again  he'd  burst  out  and  talk,  so  that  you  saw  what  he 
cared  for.  First,  I  was  sent  surveying  for  mine  'setts'  up 
on  Caradon,  for  you  know  Cornish  mining  is  looking 
up  a  bit.  Then  the  last  year  I've  sometimes  been  a  sort 
of  clerk  of  works  at  the  little  buildings — a  Methodist  chapel 
or  a  schoolroom,  perhaps.  I  hked  it;  it  sharpened  a 
fellow's  wit.  Then  evenings  I  worked  at  drawing.  Oh, 
I  played  the  virtuous  apprentice,  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  The 
old  man  had  to  struggle  with — things.  So  I  learnt  to  do 
it,  too." 

"You  went  out  to  find  a  kingdom,  and  found " 

"My  father's  asses,"  laughed  Ambrose.  "Well,  perhaps 
so ;  but  the  asses'll  come  in  uncommon  handy  when  I  enter 
into  my  kingdom." 

The  laugh  and  the  blush  tempered  the  arrogance  of  his 
speech,  as  he  looked  round  the  room  with  intense  enjoy- 
ment of  its  interests,  for  the  bare,  bookless,  pictureless 
farm  rooms  looked  desert-like  beside  this  place. 

In  many  houses  the  most  important  part  is  the  front  door, 
for  it  shuts  so  much  selfishness  inside  and  so  much  un- 
satisfied need  outside.  The  Westaway  house  was  by  no 
means  of  this  sort ;  it  was  a  wide-open  place  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  with  windows  opened  to  the  sunshine,  planetary, 
intellectual,  and  moral.  Its  low,  wide,  easy  rooms  smelt 
of  books  and  flowers,  of  kind  thoughts  and  deep  enthusiasms. 


6o  A  Man  of  Genius 

There  Free  Russia  and  the  Humanitarian  lay  cheek  by  jowl 
with  the  Nineteenth  Century  or  the  Quarterly  Review,  for 
David  Westaway  liked  the  bypaths  as  well  as  the  open  high- 
ways of  thought.  Not  in  vain  was  there  carved  over  the 
study  mantelpiece  the  sentence — 

Homo  sum,  nihil  humanum  a  me  alienum  puto. 

Ambrose  read  the  inscription  and  thought  it  somehow  most 
inappropriate  to  his  host;  for  to  the  youth's  knowledge  of 
the  rougher  side  of  life  there  was  something  old-maidish  in 
Mr.  Westaway 's  figure  and  surroundings. 

Then  he  started  to  his  feet  as  the  Vicar's  daughter  came 
into  the  room.     Ambrose  had  been  trying  vainly  to  screw  i 
up  his  courage  to  enquire  if  she  were  at  home. 

At  first  sight  Damaris  Westaway's  manner  was  her 
greatest  charm;  gracious,  peaceful  and  open-hearted,  it 
calmed  irritated  minds,  soothed  evil  tempers  and,  greatest 
triumph  of  all,  suggested  no  shadow  of  lethargy.  The  mind 
behind  the  blue-grey  eyes,  the  blue-grey  of  the  far  hills,  was 
alert,  the  heart  quick  beating  with  the  tide  of  life,  and  the 
pulses  rhythmic  with  the  great  calm  things  of  the  world. 
The  long  oval  of  her  face  that  seldom  pulsed  with  colour, 
the  straight  eyebrows,  the  firmly  closed,  yet  full  lips,  matched 
the  direct  glance  of  her  eyes,  the  lithe  swing  of  her  slim  1| 
body,  the  slight  curves  of  her  breast,  neither  full  nor 
meagre;  a  well-poised  woman,  whose  body  had  not 
grown  at  the  expense  of  her  head,  nor  her  heart  at  the 
expense  of  either. 

She  greeted  Ambrose  warmly,  while  Dr.  Dayman  stood 
in  the  doorway  behind  with  a  great  portfolio  under  his  arm. 

"Now,"  he  said,  without  pausing  for  salutations,  for  he 
was  almost  as  much  at  home  in  this  house  as  in  his  own 
next  door,  "Now,  I've  had  a  deuced  hard  day  and  I'm 
going  to  sit  in  the  easiest  chair  in  the  room,  lean  back,  shut 


Hesperus  6 1 

my  eyes,  and  listen  to  you,  Princess,  while  you  play  Chopin 
and  then  sing  the  Jewel  Song  from  'Faust,'  over  in  the 
drawing-room  yonder.  We'll  have  the  two  doors  open,  and 
then  your  voice  will  come  from  the  distance." 

"Where  you  like  it  best,  doctor,"  she  said,  laughing 
back  over  her  shoulder  as  she  crossed  the  hall  to  obey  his 
orders. 

"And  if  anybody  has  any  objection,  let  him  keep  it  to 
himself,"  said  the  doctor,  paying  no  attention  to  her  gibe, 
but  settling  himself  comfortably  for  his  pleasure. 

Mr.  Westaway  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair,  for  the 
moonlit  passion  of  the  Chopin  music  was  disquieting  to 
him.  The  movement  was  symbolic  of  the  contradiction 
that  had  been  a  trouble  to  him  all  his  life — a  contradiction 
that  was  crystallised,  as  it  were,  in  the  books  on  political 
economy  that  lay  packed  in  the  bottom  drawers  of  his 
bureau.  For  the  crisis  in  his  mind  was  not  intellectual 
merely,  but  social  mainly,  and  it  w^as  not  only  on  his  pro- 
fession, but  on  his  wealth,  that  the  iconoclastic  spirit  of 
to-day  seemed  to  him  to  be  laying  its  hands. 

He  read  little  political  economy  as  a  rule,  till  one  day 
there  came  into  his  hands,  sent  by  mistake  from  his  book- 
seller, a  packet  of  strangely  disquieting  works,  translated 
from  Russian  and  German.  As  he  read,  the  books  hit 
him  through  a  curious  personal  foible,  as,  indeed,  great 
conceptions  often  do.  He  was  a  rabid  lover  of  order,  and 
unless  he  knew  the  house  from  cellar  to  attic  was  what 
Damaris  called  "straight,"  he  was  unhappy  and  restless. 
He  loved  the  country  mainly  because  it  brought  less  evi- 
dence to  his  senses  of  the  presence  of  wreckage — human 
and  otherwise.  London  was  always  unbearable  to  him 
for  more  than  a  few  days,  because  of  the  miserable  phan- 
toms who  haunt  its  pavements  and  loom  up  its  squalid  side 
Streets.     But  here,  in  the  awful  realism  of  the  novels,  or 


62  A  Man  of  Genius 

in  the  even  more  awful  statistics  of  the  political  econo- 
mists, there  stared  him  in  the  face  the  disorder  of  the 
human  universe;  so  many  millions  hungry,  so  much  that 
might  feed  them  going  to  waste.  Room  for  all,  and  crowded 
alleys  swarming  with  human  beings  like  lice  on  the  crannies 
of  an  ancient  house. 

The  idea  became  an  obsession,  till  now  he  was  face  to 
face  with  his  own  life,  his  own  wealth.  For  the  conviction 
came  to  him  that  he,  personally,  was  a  factor  that  added 
to  the  sum  total  of  the  world's  disorder.  In  this  state  of 
mind  he  came  across  the  work  in  which  the  great  Russian 
thinker,  Tolstoi,  dissects  the  cause  of  this  evil,  the  human 
reliance  on  force.  "But  I  say  unto  you  that  ye  resist  not 
evil";  night  and  day,  of  late,  these  words  were  before  Mr. 
Westaway.  For  his  wealth  was  supported  by  the  arm  of 
force,  and  protected  by  all  the  legal  and  political  power  of 
the  country.  And  in  the  horror  of  the  wealth  came  a  revolt 
at  the  ease  and  beauty  that  springs  from  wealth;  a  mental 
revolt  only,  for  by  temperament  he  loved  the  refinements 
of  civilisation. 

His  was,  in  truth,  a  nature  wrested  from  its  inborn  in- 
stincts for  the  refinements  of  pleasure  by  the  intrusive 
appeal  of  those  who  in  all  ages  have  called  with  clarion 
voice  for  a  new  world,  where  the  former  things,  the  selfish- 
ness, violence,  and  impurity,  shall  have  passed  away.  In 
the  days  of  Savonarola,  Mr.  Westaway  would  have  placed 
his  coins  and  prints  on  the  bonfire  of  vanity,  and  have 
mourned  ever  after  for  his  departed  treasures;  in  the  days 
of  Luther,  he  would  have  cast  off  monkish  traditions,  and 
have  yearned  incessantly  for  the  cosy  comfort  of  a  cowl; 
in  the  days  of  Walt  Whitman,  Tolstoi,  and  Ibsen,  he  took 
to  a  diet  of  husks  and  sought  simplicity  in  the  cult  of  the 
spade,  or  rather,  one  side  of  him  longed  to  do  so.  For 
fire-brand  reformers  achieve  three  results:    they  enhance 


Hesperus  63 

the  conscious  greed  of  the  greedy,  they  ennoble  the  lofty- 
minded,  and  they  make  the  minds  of  the  weaker  brethren 
exceedingly  uncomfortable:  Mr.  Westaway  was  a  weaker 
brother. 

At  last  came  the  music  of  the  Jewel  Song  in  Damaris 
Westaway's  full,  rich  voice,  while  Dr.  Dayman  held  up  his 
hand  to  make  sure  that  no  one  creaked  his  chair. 

"Ah,  well,"  said  he,  as  the  song  ended,  "there's  a  fair 
world  for  them  that  can  get  it,  and  there's  another.  I've 
seen  both  to-night.  I've  just  brought  into  this  sublunary 
scene  a  hopeless  cripple,  born  of  a  half-witted  drab — and 
in  there  is  Damaris  singing  the  Jewel  Song.  Gad  1  how 
comes  it  about,  the  Jewel  Song  and  that  knave-begotten 
brat?" 

"And,"  said  Mr.  Westaway  bitterly,  "how  many  knave- 
begotten  brats  are  not  these  Jewel  Songs,  these  Wagner 
Choruses,  these  lime-lighted  passions,  answerable  for? 
And  as  for  that  Chopin  music,  I  wanted  to  shut  the  door 
on  it.     It  brought  back  the  past." 

"The  dear,  damned,  delightful  past,"  said  Dr.  Dayman 
with  a  chuckle.  "W^ell,  I've  loved  many  women,  and  what 
I  say  of  one,  I  say  of  all — brown-skinned,  fair-skinned, 
straight-haired  and  curly,  matron  and  maid  or  little  lassie 
in  her  teens — God  bless  'em,  one  and  all  !  But  I  don't  take 
things  crosswise  as  you  do.  I've  kissed  my  girl  in  the  days 
gone  by,  and  I  drink  my  wine  now  I'm  old,  and  take  no 
shame  to  myself  for  either.  And  as  for  you,  why,  Gad-a- 
mercy,  man,  didn't  you  have  that  damigella  of  yours 
trained  to  sing?  'He  that  is  merry,  let  him  sing  psalms,' 
I  suppose  that's  what  you  thought,"  fumed  the  doctor, 
while  Ambrose  chuckled  and  wished  he  could  have  ex- 
pressed the  same  sentiments  as  vigourously  as  the  doctor 
had  done. 

"Her  mother,"  said  Mr.  Westaway  slowly,  "was  singing 


64  A  Man  of  Genius 

like  a  bird  when  I  first  saw  her — and  scrubbing  the  floor 
of  a  village  inn.  Yet  she  was  a  loving  and  a  lovely  gentle- 
woman by  nature.  We  had  a  year  of  heaven,  and  then  she 
died  and  left  me  Damaris." 

"The  only  thing  in  the  world  I  envy  you  for,"  said  Dr. 
Dayman. 

"Well,  Ambrose,"  he  said,  suddenly  remembering  that 
he  was  not  alone  with  Mr.  Westaway,  "what  do  you  think 
of  it  all?" 

The  lad  leant  forward,  his  cheek  flushing.  "It's  fine,  he 
said;  "the  music,  I  mean.  It  shakes  you  up,  till  you 
wonder  what  you're  made  of  inside,  to  feel  so." 

"Made  of  mud,"  growled  Dr.  Dayman,  "and  snips  and 
snaps,  and  puppy  dogs'  tails,  that's  what  you're  made  of. 
Just  you  sit  on  your  emotions  a  bit  more,  or — or  you'll  find 
yourself  in  dock.  You've  to  do  with  the  plastic  arts,  with 
stones  and  paint,"  he  said,  snapping  each  word  like  the 
click  of  a  revolver.  "Pulse  going  anyhow,  I'll  warn.  Sit 
on  your  emotions,  will  you,  and  come  over  and  look  at 
what  I've  got  here." 

Dr.  Dayman  drew  a  chair  up  to  a  table,  and  opened  the 
portfolio.  He  held  each  paper,  as  he  took  it  out,  directly 
under  his  eyes,  screwing  up  the  lids  in  the  light  of  the 
lamp  he  had  brought  over  from  the  desk.  Mr.  Westaway 
sat  watching  the  two,  but  Damaris  had  not  returned  to  the 
room.  'I 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  let's  hear  what  you've  got  to  say 
to  that,"  said  the  doctor,  placing  a  print  before  Ambrose, 
and  folding  his  hands  comfortably  upon  the  front  of  his 
well-lined  waistcoat. 

It  was  a  curious  wood-engraving.  Amid  knotty  tree- 
trunks  and  coiling  serpents  a  naked  man  held  the  handle 
of  a  plough.  From  an  attenuated  figure  to  the  left  bright 
rays  gleamed  upon  the  straining  horses  and  the  man  who 


Hesperus  65 

drove,  upon  a  group  of  dancing  nymphs,  and  a  flock  of 
sheep.  In  one  comer  a  man  drove  a  stake  into  a  serpent, 
and  in  another  rose  a  chister  of  standing  corn. 

"The  Hght  falls  from  the  left,"  said  Ambrose  doubtfully, 
after  a  pause.  "I  can't  tell  about  the  dancing  figures, 
though;   they're  out  of  it  somehow." 

"Why?" 

"It's  hard— the  battle  and"—  he  hesitated  for  a  word— 
"ugly." 

"You  know  what  it  means?" 

"It's  the  earth- the  fight  with  it." 

"Ay,  man's  fight  with  the  forces  of  nature — hard  and 
ugly  lighting,  as  you  say." 

The  doctor  took  off  the  lamp-shade  and  flung  it  on  the 
'floor  in  order  to  look  at  Ambrose  more  closely.  He  was 
surprised  at  finding  so  much  intelligence. 

"The  figure  to  the  left  is  the  sun,  I  suppose,"  said  Am- 
brose, "or  God." 

j  "And  the  dancing  nymphs,  lad,  are  the  joys  of  the  fight, 
iof  harvest  and  vintage,  and  the  old  earth  licked  with  her 
own  weapons.  You're  no  fool,  boy.  Now,  look  ye  here," 
he  said,  pushing  forward  another  plate. 

Ambrose  laughed.  "That's  plain,"  he  said,  "anyway. 
'  There's  the  moon  on  one  side  of  the  house  and  the  stars  on 
't'other,  and  the  cow  and  the  sheep  underneath  'em  and 
1  man  and  wife  going  to  bed;  in  the  storeroom  it  looks  like, 
for  there's  apples  about  and  the  man's  bill-hook  hung  up. 
.  They'll  be  asleeo  in  each  other's  arms  before  long,"  he 
I  grinned. 

i  "That's  as  it  may  be,"  said  the  doctor  virtuously. 
"That's  Edward  Calvert's  Chamber  Idyll,  Edward  Calvert 
of  Appledore." 

"It's  a  thatched  roof,"  said  Ambrose,  paying  no  heed, 
"a  thatched  roof  that  comes  down  pretty  nigh  upon  the 
5 


66  A  Man  of  Genius  i 

bed — a  regular  old  slee  room,  like  the  back  bedrooms  at  I 
Long  Furlong." 

"Do  you  know  why  I  show  you  these?"  asked  Dr.  , 
Dayman,  showing  him  the  Cyder  Feast  with  the  breath 
of  joy  that  blows  like  a  great  wind  through  it,  the  tender 
Return  Home,  with  the  woman  waiting  across  the  dim  fields, 
with  that  sweetest  pillow  for  man's  weariness,  a  true  and « 
faithful  heart. 

"No,"  said  Ambrose,  looking  up  with  the  light  of  new 
thought  smouldering  in  his  eyes;  "but  they're  mighty  queer. 
Who  did  'em?" 

"I  told  you.     Edward  Calvert,  born  at  Appledore." 

"Appledore?"  said  Ambrose  in  surprise. 

"Yes;  of  course  you  know  Appledore  well  enough. 
He's  pretty  near  one  of  our  own  people.  But  I  didn't  show 
you  these  prints  for  that  reason.  I  did  it  because  here's 
a  man  who  loved  the  earth,  just  the  earth  that  you  turn 
with  your  ploughshare.  He  loved  the  sweet  dripping  of  the 
cider  juice,  the  clear  shining  of  rain-drops  in  the  sun,  the 
sheep  that  nibble  in  the  water-meads.  Ay,  a  man  and  wife 
undressing  themselves  for  bed,  with  the  cow  and  the  sheep 
outside,  and  the  sickle  moon  watching  their  hours  of  bliss. 
Your  fathers,  Velly,  loved  the  earth,  too,  ploughed  it,  trod 
on  it  and  sleep  in  it." 

He  stopped,  carried  away  by  the  rush  of  his  own  fire. 
Ambrose  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  was  silent,  but  his  eyes 
glowed. 

"Edward  Calvert,  North  Devon  artist,  that  has  yet 
to  come  into  his  own,"  said  the  doctor.  "But  that's 
no  matter.  You're  in  the  land  of  artists.  East  and 
west,  and  north  and  south  of  'ee,  they  be,"  he  said,  lapsing 
further  into  Devon.  "Just  look  at  'em,  the  great  Sir 
Joshua  from  Plympton,  as  great  in  portraiture  as  Turner  is 
in  landscape;    Sam  Prout,  who  dreamt  dreams  and  saw 


' 


Hesperus  67 

visions  in  stone,  and  who  loved  the  very  timber  and  tiles 
he  drew;  Calvert,  the  earth  lover  and  dreamer  of  the  golden 
age,  from  Appledore;  Thomas  Hudson,  Sir  Joshua's 
master;  old  Nicholas  Hilliard,  limner  to  Elizabeth  and 
James,  of  whom  Dr.  Donne  says — 

A  hand  or  eye 

By  Hilliard  drawn,  is  worth  a  history 

By  a  worse  painter  made. 

Cousins,  the  prince  of  mezzotint  engravers  from  Exeter; 
Richard  Cosway,  master  of  miniature,  from  Tiverton; 
Haydon,  Eastlake,  and  Northcote,  dreamers  of  history,  from 
Plymouth;  James  Gandy,  whom  Sir  Joshua  found  not 
inferior  to  the  Venetians  in  colouring,  and  William  his  son, 
not  far  below  him,  whose  names  are  mentioned  in  Gandy 
Street,  Exeter;  as  well  as  Opie  from  Cornwall.  And  the 
greatest  of  them  all  called  himself  a  Devon  man,  for  didn't 
Turner  say  to  Cyrus  Redding,  'They  may  put  me  down 
among  the  Devon  artists,  for  I  was  born  in  Devon '  ?  I 
went  over  to  look  at  the  graves  of  his  ancestors  in  the  wormy 
old  Southmolton  churchyard  the  other  day." 

"  And  are  there  no  Devon  architects  ?  "  asked  Ambrose, 
his  cheeks  burning  at  the  temerity  of  his  thought,  which 
Dr.  Dayman  guessed. 

"So  that  Ambrose  Velly  may  be  the  greatest  in  the 
Pantheon,  eh,  lad  ?  Well,  the  list  goes  back  to  the  sixteenth 
century  and  begins  with  John  Shute,  the  father  of  English 
miniature  painting,  and  the  author  of  a  book  on  architecture. 
He  played  a  scurvy  trick  on  England,  though,  for  when  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland  sent  him  to  Italy,  in  Queen 
Bess's  time,  he  came  back  with  his  head  full  of  the  fan- 
dangles of  Renaissance  architecture.  The  -first  and  chieje 
Grounds  of  Architecture  used  in  all  the  ancient  and  famous 
Monyments;  that's  the  title  of  his  book,  or  a  bit  of  it,  at  any 
rate.     Ay,  you'll  be  in  good  company,  I  assure  you,  among 


68  A  Man  of  Genius  1 

the  Devon  artists.     And  reason  good,  for  look  what  a  county 
it  is.     Why,  what  is  it  you  sing  in  church  ? 

"  ^O  all  ye  works  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 

"  'O  ye  Mountains  and  Hills,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

"I'll  make  a  new  reading.     It  ought  to  be — 

"O  all  ye  children  of  Devon,  bless  ye  the  Lord;  praise 
Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever. 

"O  ye  Tors  and  Moors  of  Devon,  bless  ye  the  Lord; 
praise  Him  and  magnify  Him  for  ever." 

He  burst  into  a  fit  of  Homeric  laughter  that  made  the 
servants  in  the  kitchen  wonder  what  was  toward. 

"Look  at  her,  lad,"  he  shouted;  "wind-swept  moors, 
thundering  surges,  soft  rains  that  fall  like  gossamer,  valleys 
deep  in  blossom,  heather  purple  as  the  shadows  thrown  by 
old  wine.  Look  at  her,  boy,  and  all  this  in  a  climate,  at 
one  moment  iridescent  like  chrysoprase,  pearls  upon  moon- 
stone, as  old  Calvert  has  it;  at  another,  clear,  clear,  clear, 
like  a  wind  out  of  the  North.  Ye  Gods  of  Olympus,  what 
a  land  for  a  painter,  what  a  land  for  a  lover,  what  a  land  for 
a  poet!" 

Then  he  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  laugh  at 
his  own  vehemence,  while  Ambrose  stood  quite  still  with 
bent  head.  Of  old  the  Gods  met  men  at  the  turning  of 
the  road,  and  often  but  in  lowly  guise;  had  Dr.  Dayman 
been  fancifully  inclined,  he  might  have  imagined  himself  to 
be  Apollo,  the  light-bringer,  for  in  the  youth's  heart  there 
had  begun  the  clear  shining  of  that  fair  Hesperus,  Star  of 
the  West,  the  finest  passion  of  his  life. 

But  the  doctor  had  descended  to  the  valleys. 

"Where's  that  bottle  of  sloe  gin,"  he  asked,  "that  I  sent 
in  last  night?" 

The  doctor's  sloe  gin  was  famous,  and,  moreover,  being 


Hesperus  69 

niggardly  in  his  old  age,  Dr.  Dayman  liked  to  get  the  full 
credit  for  his  somewhat  rare  gifts,  and  even  to  parti(  ipate 
personally  in  the  enjoyment  of  them.  It  was  often  noticed 
that  if,  in  the  morning,  a  fortunate  household  received 
a  crab  from  the  doctor,  the  donor  himself  would  drop  in  to 
supper  that  night,  for  he  was  excessively  fond  of  crab. 

The  sloe  gin  appeared,  and  Ambrose  was  just  holding  his 
glass  up  to  the  light,  in  order  to  add  the  pleasure  of  another 
sense  to  that  of  taste  when,  with  a  soft  rustle  of  silk,  Damaris 
came  into  the  room  once  more. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "something  tells  me  that  there  are 
drawings  in  that  case  of  yours,  Mr.  Velly." 

"They're  hardly  worth  looking  at  after  these,"  he  said, 
colouring  as  he  touched  the  Calvert  portfolio. 

"Well,  you  couldn't  expect  them  to  be,"  answered 
Damaris  briskly;  "for  these  are  the  picked  work  of  a 
lifetime." 

"But  what,"  interposed  Mr.  Westaway,  "did  you  really 
think  of  those  Calvert  prints,  Ambrose?" 

It  was  chiefly,  perhaps,  a  tinge  of  rugged  honesty  in 
Ambrose,  a  certain  Rabelaisian  faculty  of  laughing  at 
solemn  pretensions,  that  had  first  attracted  Mr.  Westaway 
to  him,  next  to  the  brightness  of  his  look.  For  poor  Mr. 
Westaway  had  been  so  much  smothered  in  the  incense 
of  sanctity  that  he  loved  a  lad  who  had  no  trace  of  senti- 
mentality about  him. 

"Did  you  really  like  those  pictures?"  he  asked  curiously, 
recalling,  as  he  spoke,  the  idealism  which  is  so  marked  in 
Calvert's  woodcuts. 

"No,"  said  Ambrose  bluntly;  "I  don't  believe  I  did. 
I  know  they're  good — in  a  way.  But  they  aren't  beautiful 
in  themselves.  There's  that  Cyder  Feast,  the  girl's  a 
skinny  thing,  and  in  the  Return  Home  the  man's  an  ugly 
brute  humped  up  on  a  deformed  ass;    and  in  the  other 


"JO  A  Man  of  Genius 

the  man's  muscles  are  as  stiff  as  iron.  They're  not  beau- 
tiful," he  repeated,  "though  I  suppose  they  mean  things." 

He  coloured  furiously  at  the  length  of  his  speech,  when 
he  felt  the  three  pairs  of  eyes  on  him. 

"They  mean  beautiful  things,"  said  Damaris  coldly; 
"the  long,  long  battle  of  man's  spirit,  the  beauty  of  faith- 
ful love." 

Then  she  stopped,  carried  away  by  a  sort  of  anger,  while 
Dr.  Dayman  watched  the  two  young  people  with  a  smile. 

"He's  a  pagan,  my  dear,"  he  interposed,  "a  frank 
hedonist.  He  wants  round  curves,  hair  that  curls,  and  lips 
that  pout.  Leave  the  young  rip  alone,  for  he  hasn't  a 
notion  yet  of  the  beauty  that's  under  the  skin.  Come, 
let's  see  the  drawings,"  he  said,  taking  pity  on  the  boy's 
downcast  face. 

The  first  was  a  picture  of  Mouth  Mill  Cove,  or  rather 
of  the  contorted  curves  of  strata  called  the  Black  Church 
Rocks.  The  inky  cliffs,  the  roaring  surge,  the  echoes  of 
the  valley,  the  booming  of  the  pebbles:  the  place  is  stark 
with  power  and  vivid  as  the  leap  of  a  jet  of  blood.  Mouth 
Mill  is  the  chief  landing-place  of  the  district,  and  is  used 
as  a  coal  quay  by  the  farmers;  but  even  here  it  is  only 
possible  to  come  in  with  one  tide  and  go  out  with  the  same. 
Wait  for  the  second  and  the  boat  will  be  dashed  to  pieces 
with  the  cannonade  of  rollers  on  the  pebbles. 

Damaris  saw  the  failure  of  this  painting;  the  rock 
formations  were  right  enough,  but  the  wave-lines  were  rigid, 
stone-carved. 

"Ah,  that's  better  !"  she  cried,  as  the  doctor  passed  her 
a  second. 

Through  the  arching  strata  gleamed  the  sea;  set  in 
the  frame  of  black  stone,  the  waves  shone  luminous  under 
a  lilac  sky.  It  was  a  picture  of  the  peace  that  passeth 
all  understanding.     Silently  the  doctor  passed  her  sketches 


Hesperus  71 

of  thatched  cob-cottages  and  weather-stained  farm  build- 
ings. 

"You  think  in  stone,  Ambrose,"  she  said  at  last.  "You 
remind  me  of  Prout's  failure  to  paint  waves.  But  the 
stone- work  is  very  careful." 

Ambrose  flushed,  for  he  had  hoped  for  louder  praise 
than  this,  and,  artist-like,  prided  himself  on  what  he  could 
do  least  well.  For  at  this  stage  of  his  work  he  was  sending 
out  tentacles  into  every  kingdom  of  endeavour — painting, 
carving,  practising  black-and-white  work.  In  some  indig- 
nation at  this  curt  dismissal  of  his  efforts,  he  packed  up 
his  sketches  and  said  good-night,  while  Damaris  accom- 
panied him  to  the  door. 

"What's  troubling  you,  Westaway?"  said  Dr.  Dayman, 
as  the  door  closed  behind  Ambrose  and  Damaris.  Mr. 
Westaway  had  evidently  been  in  a  brown  study  for  the  last 
ten  minutes — a  sad  one  to  judge  by  his  looks. 

"Dayman,"  he  answered,  "you're  a  man  used  to  looking 
things  in  the  face." 

"It's  my  business  to  do  so,"  said  the  doctor  placidly, 
from  the  midst  of  the  haze  of  tobacco  smoke  that  wreathed 
his  great  head. 

"It's  not  been  mine,"  said  the  Vicar;  "for  I  seem  to 
have  made  it  my  business  to  look  askance  at  everything." 

"Professional  habit,  probably,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  with 
a  laugh.  He  had  no  very  keen  love  of  the  cloth,  though 
he  placed  a  high  value  on  the  individual  worth  of  many 
who  wore  it. 

"That's  what  I  feel,"  said  Mr.  W^estaway;  "for 
there  comes  a  time  in  every  man's  life  when  he  ought 
to  try  and  get  away  from  the  merely  professional  stand- 
point." 

"  Humph  ! "  growled  the  doctor,  recalling  a  sermon  he  had 
heard  Mr.  Westaway  preach  on  the  great  undone  creative 


72  A  Man  of  Genius 

acts,  the  might-have-beens  of  the  moral  world.  "You're 
doing  it  too  late,  Westaway;  for  there's  a  deal  of  sense  in 
the  notion  of  the  old  woman  in  George  Eliot,  that  high- 
learnt  folks  get  their  thinking  done  early,  so  as  to  get  it 
over  once  and  for  all.  Thinking's  like  sugar — good  for 
the  young,  but  gouty  for  the  old.  '  Omnia  exeunt  in  mys- 
terium';  it's  the  law  and  the  prophets,  and  you  can't  get 
beyond  it.  I  should  have  thought  that  the  habits  of  a 
lifetime  would  have  been  a  sufficient  prophylactic  against 
the  green-sickness  of  speculation." 

"I'm  in  trouble,  Dayman,"  said  the  Vicar,  as  though 
appealing  for  something  less  like  a  sneer.  "I've  done  the 
thinking,  indeed.  Now  comes  the  acting.  I'm  going  to 
leave  the  Church." 

The  doctor  leant  forward,  nipping  his  pipe. 

"Difficulties?"  he  asked.  "Oh,  come  now.  They're 
out  of  date.  We've  all  agreed  to  ignore  'em.  In  the  days 
of  Darwin  and  Huxley,  it  might  have  been  de  rigueur; 
but  now  it's  the  era  of  the  reconciliation  of  soul  and  body, 
or  rather,  body's  soul  and  soul's  body,  and  no  man  can  tell 
t'  other  from  which  nowadays." 

"It  isn't  that  at  all.  Dayman.  It's  life — ihe  life  of  to-day 
that's  got  at  me.  Everybody  is  mentally  alive  to-day, 
except  the  priest  and  the  mere  drudge,  and  we  are  rapidly 
reducing  the  numl^ers  of  the  latter.  Here  is  the  scientist 
pressing  into  the  unknown  world,  passing  point  after  point 
in  the  uncharted  seas  of  life;  here  is  the  social  reformer 
daring  the  rocks  of  experiment  with  a  spirit  bolder  than 
the  purpose  of  a  Columbus  or  a  Pizarro.  Look  here, 
Dayman,"  he  said,  getting  up  and  beginning  to  quarter-deck 
up  and  down,  "we're  on  the  verge  of  a  new  age  of  life,  or 
we  shall  be  when  we've  placed  our  footstep  on  the  North 
Pole  and  the  South.  No,  I'm  not  crazy,"  he  said,  with 
a  laugh  at  the  doctor's  face  of  surprise.     "Think,    What 


Hesperus  73 

was  it  in  the  past  that  bred  men  of  heroic  stuff?  What  has 
it  always  been?" 

"War  and  exploration,"  snapped  the  doctor. 

"Just  so.  And" — he  pointed  with  the  finger  of  pro- 
phecv — "our  inventions  will  in  time  make  war — first,  an 
affair  of  mathematics,  and  then,  impossible,  while  the  last 
inch  of  the  Unknown  will  soon  be  mapped  and  surveyed  on 
this  globe.  What  then?  Shall  we  rot  in  spiritual  in- 
action? Nay,  nay;  wider  fields  than  ever  the  mind  of  man 
has  conceived  are  opening  before  us  daily — fields  where  the 
vistas  are  more  awful  than  any  floes  of  polar  ice;  for  with 
matter  that  exists  on  many  more  planes  than  our  common 
senses  show,  and  with  age-long  life  coming  daily  within  our 
certain  knowledge,  who  can  say  what  we  shall  be?" 

"I  don't  see  why  all  this  should  prevent  you  from  dis- 
tributing blankets,  or  even  offering  prayer.  Behind  it  all 
— all  these  planes  of  matter — is  the  Unknown — the  Un- 
known God,  if  you  will.  It  strikes  me  we'll  want  a  damned 
sight  more  prayer  than  ever  before,  if  what  you  say  is  true. 
And  I  grant  you  there  do  seem  to  be  a  few  staggering  facts 
about  the  universe.  Anyway,  put  it  at  its  lowest,  your 
order  is  urbane;  it  oils  things  a  bit,  organises  a  lot  of  charity, 
and  employs  the  energies  of  an  immense  number  of  women." 

"All  very  well;  but  as  you  know  perfectly,  that's  not 
what  we're  supposed  to  exist  for.  We  ought  to  know  as 
much  about  the  soul  as  the  doctor  does  of  the  body.  And 
we  don't.  That's  just  all  about  it.  We  don't.  The  people 
ask  us  plain  questions  as  to  what  is  the  constitution  of  man, 
and  we're  still  disputing  about  St.  Paul's  analysis  of  the 
human  organism.  We  can't  tell  the  nations  half  as  much 
as  a  man  who  looks  into  all  the  creeds  and  picks  out  the 
little  gem  of  truth  that  each  enshrines;  no,  nor  half  as 
much  as  the  scientist  who  can  talk  of  nothing  but  the  fourth 
dimension.     And  why  have  we  nothing  to  tell?     Because 


74  A  Man  of  Genius  | 

it's  nearly  two  thousand  years  ago  that  we  learnt  anything. 
And  of  what  we  learnt  then  we've  falsified  two-thirds.  We 
talk  as  if  the  message  given  nineteen  hundred  years  ago  was 
the  last  words  from  the  unseen,  when  perhaps  the  newest 
message  is  in — to-day's  paper." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  then  the  doctor  saia — 
"Ay,  you're  right,  Westaway;    you  must  go.     For  the 
priest  of  any  Church  is  bound  to  back  his  own  Church's 
creed,  his  own  Church's  scheme  of  things.     But  yours  is 
all  so  draughty." 

"So  draughty?"  questioned  Mr.  Westaway. 
"Why,  yes.     Like  other  old  folks,  I  like  a  nice  cosy 
room,  and  here  you  are,  tossing  me  out  into  chaos,  with 
a  howling  wind  of  doubt  giving  me  goose-flesh  all  over. 
I  like  standing  up  to  say  a  comfortable  creed." 

But  the  Vicar's  mind  was  turned  in  quite  a  different 
direction.  For  the  oldest  leaves  on  the  tree  shake  most 
easily  in  the  wind,  and  now  Mr.  Westaway  was  passing  in 
age  under  those  simplicities  of  the  New  Testament  which 
every  period  has  interpreted  in  its  own  fashion.  The 
absolute  literalness  of  the  reading:  "Give  all  that  thou 
hast,"  had  at  first  struck  him  painfully,  then  with  con- 
viction. 

"The  other  day,"  he  said  slowly,  with  an  inward  gaze, 
"the  other  day  I  took  part  in  a  Cathedral  service  to  which 
there  came  in  procession,  the  judge  on  circuit,  the  mayor 
and  corporation,  the  aldermen  and  police.  They  came  to 
thank  God  for  having  raised  them  up.  And  the  day  before 
the  judge  had  been  employed  in  sentencing  a  poor,  ignorant 
fellow-creature  to  hard  labour  for  stealing  a  pair  of  boots. 
In  the  fanfaronade  of  trumpets  from  their  gold-laced  foot- 
men, sounded  the  triumph  of  the  lord  of  this  world.  And 
they  came  to  the  temple  of  the  Teacher  who  bade  us  turn 
the  other  cheek  to  an  assailant." 


Hesperus  75 

"Well,  top-dog,  you  know,"  said  Dr.  Dayman  truculently; 
"for  that's  what  all  that  means.  We  can't  do  yet  without 
judges  and  police,  though  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  one  my- 
self. Civilisation,  at  least  in  the  present  form,  demands 
that  quite  half  the  people  who  carry  it  on  should  have  no 
imagination.  Look  at  that  chap  Darracott,  for  instance; 
he's  having  a  hell  of  a  time.  And  for  nothing  more  than 
just  because  he  happens  to  be  able  to  see  pictures — of 
i  what  perhaps  didn't  happen  at  all  as  he  sees  it.  I  tell 
you  what  it  is,  David,  you've  got  a  temperature  of  104 
degrees,  Tolstoi — and  I  can't  operate.  If  you'd  only 
caught  something  in  itis^  instead  of  something  in  isw,  I 
might." 

*'No,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  with  a  smile,  *'  'tis  I,  Cleopas, 
w^ho  must  do  the  operating  this  time.'^ 

When  moved  below  the  surface  they  were  David  and 
Cleopas  to  one  another,  for  in  truth  they  were  mutually  in 
love  with  their  weaknesses;  for  David  was  a  student  with 
more  ichor  than  blood  in  his  veins,  and  Cleopas  an  earth- 
bound,  a  carnal  old  rascal,  perhaps,  but  heartsome,  like  a 
squire  out  of  the  pages  of  Fielding.  In  any  case,  one  was 
the  antithesis  of  the  other. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  KING  OF  SHADOWS 

SLOWLY  the  sunlight  touched  the  billowy  ridges  of 
the  old  slates  on  Long  Furlong  roof,  turning  the 
lichen-patches  into  spots  of  gold,  bathing  the  head  of  the 
one  gable  in  warmth,  and  showing  up  the  depth  of  shadow 
that  still  covered  the  walled  garden,  with  its  shrubs  of 
fuchsia  and  hydrangea  springing  from  the  deep,  mossy 
turf. 

Suddenly  there  swept  across  the  farm  a  film  of  rain,  the 
drops  shining  like  gleaming  points  of  silver  against  the 
golden  background  of  sunshine.  Sighing,  quivering,  the 
damp  gossamer  of  it  hovered  over  the  place,  bringing 
out  the  goodly  scent  of  earth  and  lichen,  fern  and  weed. 
Then  the  sunlight  widened  into  the  peace  of  a  golden 
dawn,  and  the  sleeper  within  the  gable-room  sighed  and 
awoke,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  moulded  ceiling,  the  glory  of 
the  house.  Over  the  mantelpiece  were  the  letters  W.  M.  A. 
and  the  date  1627,  interwoven  in  a  design  of  pine-apples, 
with  a  long,  flat  buckled  strap.  This  piece  of  ancient  handi- 
craft represented  for  Ambrose  all  the  art  treasures  of  the 
world,  the  awe  of  cathedral  arches,  the  mystery  of  marble 
forms,  the  charm  of  painted  canvas. 

As  he  dressed,  the  racy  homeliness  of  the  scent  of  damp 
earth  came  from  the  open  window  to  his  nostrils.  These 
two  powers,  the  sense  of  skilled  craftsmanship  and  the  scent 
of  the  earth,  were  to  be  the  dominant  forces  in  Ambrose 

26 


The  King  of  Shadows  77 

Velly's  destiny,  coming  as  they  did  from  the  two  strains 
in  his  blood,  that  of  the  Huguenot  worker  and  the  EngUsh 
squire.  For  underneath  his  love  of  beauty  was  the  peasant's 
love  of  the  land,  his  craving  to  possess  it,  handle  it,  own  it, 
to  make  it  his  mistress.  Out  of  this  heritage  of  his  fathers 
there  had,  doubtless,  grown  his  desire  to  create  in  stone, 
the  most  material  form  of  expression  an  artist  can  adopt. 
Hence,  too,  no  doubt,  his  instinctive  love  of  Gothic,  which 
speaks  almost  as  intimately  of  the  life  of  the  soil  as  the 
very  trees  that  grow  from  it.  From  his  mother's  line  he 
had  possibly  derived  his  sense  of  the  fineness  of  skilled 
labour  that,  coupled  with  the  power  of  hand  and  eye,  gives 
the  plastic  artist. 

Vet  a  third  power  was  to  rule,  but  of  that  only  Mrs. 
Velly  and  John  Darracott  guessed  the  presence.  To  a 
fanciful  mind,  indeed,  the  fates  always  come  in  triple  form. 
With  the  skilled  hand  of  Minerva  to  give  him  victor}^  in 
art,  and  Juno  of  the  fruitful  breast  to  give  him  the  produce 
of  the  earth,  Ambrose  Velly  might  have  fared  well  enough. 
But  there  remained  to  him,  also,  a  third  goddess,  she  who 
comes  dove-drawn,  but  with  the  power  of  the  great  eagle, 
to  spoil  and  ravin;  for  Ambrose,  the  altar  of  Venus  was  to 
stand  hard  by  the  temple  of  Juno  and  under  the  awful 
frown  of  Minerva. 

Whilst  he  huddled  on  his  clothes,  he  glanced  at  the  table 
under  the  window  where  lay  Vivian's  Visitations  of  Devon, 
lent  him  by  Dr.  Dayman,  side  by  side  with  a  modern 
manual  of  heraldry  that  was  his  own.  From  the  next  room 
there  came  the  sound  of  a  man's  yawn.  As  he  heard  it,  a 
flush  passed  across  the  lad's  face,  for  there  in  the  pedigrees 
of  gentle  families  stood  the  name  Velly,  now  sunk  to  yeoman 
rank  and  possibly  to  sink  lower;  for  in  the  next  room, 
in  the  shape  of  his  father,  was  a  living  incarnation  of  the 
slackness  of  fibre  that  had  brought  the  Velly  family  low. 


yS  A  Man  of  Genius 

Still,  his  ancestry  was  a  comfort  to  Ambrose,  and  he  held  1 
his  head  the  higher  for  it  as  he  went  downstairs  to  the  ' 
milking  of  the  cows  and  the  grooming  of  the  horses. 

An  hour  later  square  patches  of  sunlight  dappled  the  ■ 
blue  slates  of  the  kitchen  floor.     At  the  end  of  the  table  : 
towards  the  fire  the  family  were  at  breakfast,  while  at  the 
draughty  end  near  the  yard  door  was  the  place  for  the 
retainers,  now  limited  to  old  Caleb  who,  "man  and  boy," 
had  served  the  Velly  family  for  nearly  thirty  years. 

With  a  long  squawk  of  the  bench  along  the  slates  he 
prepared  for  action,  prefacing  it  with  his  usual  grace  before 
meat. 

''Good  stomich  to  'ee,  Maister,"  said  he,  with  a  nod. 
''Good  stomich  to  'ee.  Missus;  Good  stomich  to  'ee, 
Maister  Ambrose." 

It  was  the  "Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite,  and 
health  on  both,"  but  more  succinctly  expressed.  This 
done,  he  addressed  himself  solemnly  to  the  "good  dollop 
of  fry"  that  steamed  on  the  table  before  him.  From  his 
round,  weather-beaten  face,  fringed  with  a  monkey  frill  of 
ruddy  hair,  his  queer  eyes,  one  blue-grey,  the  other  reddish- 
brown,  wrinkled  cutely  round  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"Market-merry  last  night  again,"  he  said  to  himself,  eye- 
ing his  master  out  of  the  corner  of  his  grey  eye;  "and  sour 
as  a  crab,"  he  added  by  way  of  summary. 

"Your  daughter  going  to  stay  with  you  a  bit,  Caleb?" 
said  Mrs.  Velly. 

"No;  her  isn't  going  to  bide  over  to-day.  Missus.  Didn't 
know  her  was  coming  when  her  did  come,  nuther." 

His  voice  seemed  to  come,  thin  and  piping,  from  far 
buried  depths  within. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  voice,  Caleb?  It  sounds 
going  to  pieces  like." 

"Iss;  there's  summat  in  my  oazle-pipe,  I  reckon.    'Twill 


The  King  of  Shadows  79 

be  with  me  like  'twas  with  old  Sol  Sanguin  that  sung  tenor 
up  to  Holsworthy.  The  parson  come  along  one  forenoon 
and  seed  'en  standing  up  to  his  neck  in  water  in  the  stream. 
Says  he,  'Sol,  what  the  gallis  be  doing  there?'  He  didn't 
say  no  more  than  that,  being  a  man  o'  God  and  bound  to 
vent  aisy.  'Why,'  says  Sol,  'the  bass  up  to  choir  can't 
sing  to-morra  morning,  and  here  be  I  trying  to  get  a  hose 
(cold)  so's  I  can  take  the  bass  !" 

"  'Tis  a  bit  of  a  cold,  Missus,  thank  'ee,  and  I  be  already 
as  deaf  as  a  addick,"  he  added  cheerfully. 

"They  calves  down  to  Four  Acres  don't  sim  to  me  to 
goody,  Maister,"  he  observed  after  a  pause.  "Might  so 
well  shift  'em  to-morra,"  he  concluded,  seeing  that  no 
answer  was  vouchsafed. 

Mr.  Velly  grunted  in  token  of  assent. 

"They'll  be  carr'ing  the  first  field  up  to  Blegberry  to-day, 
I  hear,"  said  Caleb. 

"Yes,"  said  Ambrose;  "they're  short-handed,  too.  And 
as  'tis  slack  time,  now  ours  isn't  cut,  I'm  going  over  to 
lend  a  hand." 

"What's  that  for?"  said  Mr.  Velly,  rousing  himself. 
"What's  it  to  you  if  they  are  short-handed?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Ambrose,  defiantly  putting  the  bare 
truth.  "But  harvest  pay's  harvest  pay,  and  Caleb  can  rub 
along  for  a  day  or  so  without  me." 

"  So  you're  willing  to  play  loblolly  boy  for  a  shilling  or  two, 
as  if  there  wasn't  work  enough  for  'ee  here — and  mostly  left 
undone,  too." 

"Nay,  nay,  father,  the  lad's  a  good  worker,"  said  Mrs. 
Velly,  with  a  scowl  at  the  offending  Caleb,  who  was  hur- 
riedly packing  up  his  plate  and  cup  in  preparation  for  a 
rapid  exit.  "Don't  'ee  be  so  maggotty-headed,  there's  a 
good  man.  We're  not  the  sort  nowadays  to  ride  the  high 
horse." 


8o  A  Man  of  Genius 

''That's  always  your  way,  Missus,  always  was,  standing 
up  for  the  young  varmint.  If  I'd  give  'en  the  buckle-strap 
every  time  that  you  wouldn't  let  me,  he  wouldn't  be  the 
tom-fool  he  is  now.  Why,  he's  no  son  of  mine;  he's  a 
molly-coddle,  and  makes  himself  the  laughing  stock  of  the 
parish — and  all  over  an  old  hare." 

"I  only  did  what  anybody  who  wasn't  a  brute  would 
have  done,"  panted  Ambrose,  disregarding  his  mother's 
imploring  look. 

"Any  body  but  a gapper-mouth,  you  mean,"  sneered  Mr. 
Velly.     "I  shall  never  forget  it." 

One  of  the  discomforts  of  living  with  Mr.  Velly  was  his 
habit  of  repeating  perfectly  familiar  unpleasant  stories, 
merely  because  there  was  a  sting  in  them.  "The  harriers 
had  a  good  run,"  he  said,  "a  matter  of  five  miles  or  so,  till 
a  rum  thing  happened  upon  cliff  top  by  Damehole  Point. 
I  saw  the  hounds  clear  the  cliff  and  scent  the  beach.  Sure 
'nuff,  thought  I,  hare's  took  to  sea.  And  so  she  had — 
swam  out  a  yard  or  two  and  the  dogs  barking  in  the  surf. 
Now  what  did  this  young  hopeful  of  ours  do,  but  nip  in 
after  her  and  catch  her  up  in  his  arms  with  a  twist  of  his 
whip  !  Thought  I,  'there's  some  spunk  in  the  fellow  after 
all.'  But  I'm  damned  if  he  didn't  let  her  go,  with  all  the 
huntsmen  rounding  on  'en  from  cliff  edge." 

"  'Twas  run  blind,"  stammered  Ambrose.  "  It's  devilish, 
getting  fun  out  of  torture  like  that." 

There  flashed  from  the  eyes  of  both  disputants  the  hate 
that  comes  of  close  kinship  and  close  likeness,  the  ugliest 
sort  of  hate  in  nature;  for  it  springs  from  the  most  intimate 
knowledge  of  all,  self-knowledge.  Blood  of  one's  blood; 
out  of  it  leaps  one's  own  cruelty,  weakness,  or  lust,  intimate, 
familiar,  abhorrent. 

As  Ambrose  flung  himself  out  of  the  room  it  was  the 
incessantly  repeated  taunt,   in   the  same  old  words  and 


The  King  of  Shadows  8i 

jhrases  that  produced  a  mad  longing  to  escape  from  this 
life  of  hopeless  struggle. 

"The  lad's  a  good  lad,  James,"  said  Mrs.  Velly.  "  He's 
given  to  fancies,  maybe,  but  he's  no  trouble  in  other  ways." 
'Fancies  or  no,  that  lad'll  give  us  trouble  before  we're 
dead  and  gone.     Vou  mark  my  words." 

'Then  he'll  only  be  the  very  spit  of  his  father  in  that 
way,  James.  It's  a  deal  of  trouble  you've  always  been  to 
me  and  always  will  be.  But  there,  'tis  what  was  to  be. 
Menfolk  be  made  to  worrit,  and  apern-folk  (women)  to  put 
up  with  'em." 

"Talk,  talk,  talk,"  growled  Mr.  Velly.  "You  and  your 
precious  son  be  both  alike  in  that.  Buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  and 
do  nothing  all  day  long,  like  an  apple-drane  in  a  cow-flop." 

Mrs.  Velly  smiled  grimly,  for  if  there  was  any  one  at 
Long  Furlong  as  useless  as  a  wasp  in  a  foxglove,  it  was 
James  Velly,  often  "market-merry,"  and  always  as  slack  as 
a  half-baked  loaf.  She  often  wondered  what  mental  image 
he  saw  of  himself  in  the  reflecting-glasses  of  his  soul. 
Then  she  laughed  as  he  rubbed  his  shining,  bald  head,  as 
domelike  as  that  of  his  son's. 

'Let  me  tell  you  a  story,  James.  Once  there  was  a  man 
in  a  club  getting  sick-pay;  so  his  wife  said  to  their  son, 
'Jacky,  if  all  goes  well  and  your  father  keeps  poorly,  we'll 
have  a  fortnight's  holiday  this  year  instead  of  a  week.' 
If  only  you  were  in  a  club  and  could  get  sick -pay,  how 
happy  we  should  be,  James;  for,  my  dear  soul,  you'd  be 
more  useful  that  way  than  you  ever  will  be  when  you're  out 
and  about." 

Mr.  Velly  was  not  likely  to  go  wrong  for  lack  of  plain 
speaking  from  his  wife. 

Down  the  lonely  lanes,   through   which  Ambrose  rode 
to  his  work,  the  central  ridges  were  grass-grown  and  mossy, 
the   side-ruts   deep   in   soft   dust.     The   long   shadows  of 
6 


82  A  Man  of  Genius 

morning  lay  almost  from  one  hedge  to  another,  where 
gossamer  threads  had  been  spun  that  glittered  dew-gemmed 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  road. 

Built  of  grey,  weather-beaten  stone,  with  an  outer  wallf 
like  the  line  of  circumvallation  of  a  fortress,  Blegberry 
stands  almost  on  the  cliffs.  The  sea  wind  whistles  about 
its  huddled  shoulders,  the  rain  lashes  its  crouching  back. 
No  window  looks  directly  seaward,  and  the  front  door 
opens  into  a  tiny  square  pleasaunce  enclosed  on  all  sides 
by  high  walls  and  crowded  with  fuchsias,  myrtles,  and 
rock- work.  The  wind  blows  "true"  up  at  Blegberry,  for 
there  are  no  trees  to  groan  and  protest,  only  a  low  stone 
house  built  for  noiseless  resistance. 

To-day,  as  Ambrose  stood  on  the  cart  he  was  loading, 
the  whole  coast-line  lay  plain  before  him  on  both  sides  of 
Hartland  Point.  The  long  ridges  of  shark-tooth  rocks 
that  line  the  foot  of  the  cliffs  gleamed  black  as  jet  in  the 
glimpses  of  them  revealed  by  the  foam  of  the  tide.  Needle- 
points of  rock  out  beyond,  in  the  spray  of  the  churning  tide, 
blazed  with  the  cruel  glitter  of  steel  in  the  sunlight.  Head- 
land after  headland,  contorted  into  grotesque  shapes  aeons 
ago  by  the  upheavals  of  the  strata  and  now  grass-grown, 
with  nodding  heads  of  sea-pinks  in  the  crevices,  crouched  i 
prone,  with  sphinx-like  heads  gazing  over  the  tossing  lines 
of  Atlantic  rollers.  Smoothlands,  at  whose  foot  the  tragedy, 
of  the  Flying  Foam  had  taken  place,  rose  just  below  the 
field  they  were  saving,  like  the  upward  sweep  of  a  wave 
arrested  in  mid-course.  From  its  verge  there  was  a  fall 
of  seventy-five  feet  to  the  sea,  straight  as  a  plummet  could 
drop,  while  bell-heather  glowed  all  up  the  landward  side. 
The  light  gleamed  on  the  light-houses  of  Lundy,  ten  miles 
away,  over  the  laughing  ripples  of  the  sun-flecked  waves. 
Away  in  the  west  the  dim  forms  of  Cornish  headlands  rose, 
blue-grey  in  the  silver  of  the  sea. 


The  King  of  Shadows  83 

"  Lundy  high,  sign  of  dry; 
Lundy  plain,  sign  of  rain," 

said  Michael  Prust,  the  man  who  was  loading  by  the  side 
of  Ambrose.  He  paused  to  dash  the  sweat  from  his  face 
fwith  the  back  of  a  hairy,  sun-burnt  hand. 
j  ''And  which  is  it  to-day?"  asked  Ambrose. 
I  "Blest  if  I  know.  Ever  bin  to  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven, 
'mister?"  he  asked,  using  the  local  synonym  for  Lundy, 
derived  from  the  name  of  its  owner. 

"No;  nor  don't  expect  to." 

"No  more  don't  I,  if  you  come  to  that.     But  I've  been 
over  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  island;   "went  over  in 
the  Gannet  from  Appledore,  and  pretty  nigh  left  my  inside 
i  behind.     There's  a  mort  of  fine  granite  there,  though." 

"  'Tis  a  bit  of  Dartmoor  cropped  up,  they  say.  In 
Jubilee  year  Lundy  ran  short  of  water,"  said  Ambrose, 
*'but  when  a  thunderstorm  with  clouds  of  rain  came  upon 
Dartmoor,  the  springs  of  Lundy  filled." 

"A  bit  of  learning's  a  fine  thing,"  said  Michael.  "That's 
what  I  say  if  my  boys  take  to  miching  from  school,  for 
they'm  'nointed  chaps,  they  be." 

"How  many  is  it  now,  Michael?"  shouted  Abraham 
Ridd. 

"Well,  now,  you've  asked  a  question,"  said  Michael  wnth 
a  wink.  "Whether  it  were  nine  or  ten  the  last  time  missus 
counted  'em,  I'm  danged  if  I  can  tell  'ee." 

"Iss,"  said  William  Crocker,  a  long,  melancholy  Jaques 
of  a  man,  with  a  face  like  an  ancient  horn-lanthorn  for 
obscurity  and  bewilderment  "that's  a  trade  that  never 
fails." 

"How  many  is  it  now,  Bill?"  asked  Prust. 

"Nineteen,  as  I'm  a  living  sinner,"  said  Bill;  "us  tried 
hard  for  the  twentieth,  but  our  second  girl  had  a  mishap  in 
the  fall,  and  that  made  up  the  twenty." 


84  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Ay,  it  tries  a  man,  it  do,"  said  Ridd;  ''and  'tis  wonder- 
ful what  becomes  of  a  pound  of  cheese  with  a  family  like 
that." 

"But  there's  nineteen  golden  sovereigns  laid  by  for  'em," 
said  Bill. 

"And  none  for  the  little  twentieth?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"Well,  you  couldn't  look  for  it  for  the  like  of  that.  Born 
wrong  side  of  the  blanket,  you  see,  maister." 

So  little  twentieth  had  to  learn  early  in  life  the  nature  of 
the  world's  justice. 

"But  pretty  much  alike  when  they  get  here,"  said  Ambrose. 

"So  they  be,  so  they  be,"  chorussed  the  other  three. 

The  husks  and  dust  of  the  corn-sheaves  gathered  thickly 
on  everything  as  the  blazing  heat  of  the  midday  hours 
passed  over  the  field.  The  firkins  of  beer  were  emptied, 
and  still  the  dusty  skins,  parched  throats,  and  bloodshot 
eyes  of  the  labourers  called  for  more. 

"Here's  the  drinkings,  praise  be!"  said  Prust  at  length, 
as  the  fragrance  of  hot  tea  and  the  scent  of  saffron  cakes 
became  perceptible  along  the  lane  outside  the  field. 

The  boy  who  had  wheeled  up  the  cans  sat  on  a  corn-  | 
sheaf  grinning  at  the  men's  talk  as  they  stretched  out  in 
the  shadow  of  the  loaded  wagon,  wielding  clasp  knives  over  | 
the   great   flat   drinking   cakes.     Old   Prust   still   lovingly 
dandled  his  beer  firkin;   the  tea  he  valued  as  bringing  out  1 
the  sweat,  but  the  beer  for  joy. 

The  horses  harnessed  to  the  wagon  drooped  wearily  over ' 
their  nose-bags,  and  the  bright  red  handkerchiefs  of  the 
men  flamed  in  the  light  that  caught  the  steel  of  the  prongs 
and  the  metal  points  of  the  harness. 

"  Old  mare's  got  a  Devon  coat-of-arms,"  said  Bill  Crocker, 
pointing  to  the  broken  knees  of  the  near  horse,  as  he  tipped 
up  the  tea-can  and  in  so  doing  poured  a  pint  or  two  over 
himself. 


The  King  of  Shadows  85 

"As  spry  as  a  cow  with  a  musket,  Bill,  you  be," 
said  Prust. 

"Anyway,"  said  the  horseman  hulTily,  offended  at  the 
slight  to  one  of  his  charges,  "her's  got  the  strain  of  old 
Jennifer  to  the  making  of  her." 

The  other  men  regarded  the  old  mare  with  new  respect, 
for  Jennifer  is  the  famous  horse  of  the  district — the  Pretty 
Polly  of  North  Devon.  Her  mother  was  a  Spanish  jennet 
saved  from  a  wreck  when  in  foal.  Her  offspring,  thus 
strangely  droj^ped,  saved  hundreds  of  lives  by  her  clever- 
ness in  dashing  in  and  out  of  the  surf,  so  that  her  rider 
could  help  the  wrecked.  In  the  end  Jennifer  became  an 
heiress,  for  fifty  pounds  was  left  her  by  will,  so  that  she 
should  never  fall  upon  evil  days,  and  her  descendants, 
however  jaded  and  wind-broken,  have  a  reputation  still. 

"Hark  to  the  ground  say!"  said  Prust  suddenly 

All  held  cans  and  cakes  suspended  while  the  awesome 
roll  of  the  pebbles  on  the  beaches  below  came  up  like  the 
muffled  beating  of  drums. 

"Look  there!"  called  the  boy,  who  had  climbed  on  to 
the  half-loaded  wagon.  Following  the  direction  of  his 
outstretched  finger  the  men  gazed  seaward. 

Light  puffs  of  mist,  like  smoke-wreaths  from  an  unseen 
fire,  were  blowing  inland  from  the  sea,  coming  every  in- 
stant thicker  and  thicker.  The  mist  curtains  had  dropped 
over  Lundy  and  the  Welsh  coast;  but  silver  points  of  light 
still  flickered  here  and  there  on  the  sea.  Westward  the 
coast-line  was  blotted  out,  while  they  watched  the  smoke- 
drifts  gather,  apparently  driving  hot  blasts  of  air  before 
them.  Still,  dun  lingers  worked  on  cliff  and  field  till  Hart- 
land  Quay  was  gone  and  a  lowering  cloud  of  November 
fog  took  its  place. 

"It  comes  with  a  breath  and  goes  with  another,"  said 
Michael  solemnly. 


86  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Best  get  on  with  this  load  before  it  catches  us,"  said 
Ambrose,  leaping  up. 

Suddenly  all  the  clatter  ceased,  and  old  Prust  muttered, 
''The  ground  say  didn't  speak  for  nort."  Then  a  rever- 
berating sound,  like  minute  guns,  came  from  the  coast- 
guard station  at  Hartland. 

"From  Padstow  Point  to  Hartland  Light, 
A  watery  grave  by  day  and  night," 

said  Michael. 

By  the  time  the  load  was  carried  a  man  could  scarce  see 
his  hand  before  his  face,  and  the  men  walked  back  to  the 
barn  at  Blegberry  in  a  thick,  reddish  haze  that  magnified 
the  size  of  everything  till  it  seemed  grotesque. 

Up  in  the  rough  rafters  of  the  barn  bright  pigeon  eyes 
peeped  at  the  group  of  men  settled  in  the  hay.  There 
came  a  sleepy  ''rookety  coo"  from  time  to  time,  and  a 
feather,  soft  and  silvery,  would  drop  from  a  well-preened 
wing.  The  mist  filled  the  shadowy  corners  and  hid  the 
outlines  of  the  carts  at  the  far  end,  while  over  the  half- 
open  doorway  the  world  apparently  ceased  in  the  thick 
wool  of  fog. 

Michael  Prust,  the  conversationalist  of  the  party,  felt  the 
influences  of  time  and  place;   he  became  reminiscent. 

"Us  shan't  carr'  that  field  to-day,"  said  Crocker. 

"  'Twas  laid  down  as  us  shouldn't,"  said  Michael. 
"Same  as  all  things  be  laid  down." 

His  voice  sounded  dreamy,  and  the  sleepy  fingers  of  the 
dense  quiet,  combined  with  tobacco,  began  to  lull  every- 
body into  a  dream.  The  farmer  himself  was  away,  so  that 
further  activity  than  waiting  seemed  uncalled  for. 

"I  followed  the  sea  first  'long,"  said  Prust,  "till  I  married 
Susan  and  come  to  live  here.  I  was  mate  of  the  Unity 
to  Brixham,  and  Susan's  sister  was  married  to  the  skipper 


The  King  of  Shadows  87 

of  her.     That's  how  I  got  Susan.     'Twas  all  through  being 
laid  down  for  us." 

"Drive  on,  Michael,"  said  Abraham  Ridd;  "you'm 
pretty  nigh  as  long  getting  to  it  as  the  donkey  was  when 
they  walked  with  a  carrot  two  inches  ofif  his  nose." 

"The  Unity  put  out  'pon  a  fair  wind  of  a  Tuesday 
morning,"  said  Prust,  his  voice  beginning  to  drone  like  the 
rhythm  of  a  chanty.  "Us  didn't  mean  to  be  out  long,  for 
skipper's  missus,  my  Susan's  sister,  was  near  her  lying-in, 
I  and  skipper'd  got  her  on  his  mind;  but  come  Tuesday 
night  the  wind  shifted  sudden,  and  there  wasn't  a  chance 
of  us  getting  in  for  hours.  I  dunno  how  it  come  about, 
but  I  reckon  the  old  man  lost  his  nerve.  Anyway,  there 
was  something  wrong  aloft,  and  the  skipper  went  up,  and 
come  down  quicker  than  he  meant,  with  his  shoulder  out 
and  the  wind  against  our  getting  back. 

"We  carried  'en  below  and  there  a  lay.  And  'twas 
Friday  night  afore  us  got  'en  to  a  doctor,  and  his  collar 
bone  broke,  too,  as  they  found  after. 

"*  'Tis  like  a  circle,'  said  he,  'there'll  be  no  getting  out 
of  it  till  there's  been  more  trouble.  Somebody's  been  ill- 
wishing  us.'  And  I  knowed  he  was  thinking  'pon  the  missus. 
!  But  the  two  of  us  that  was  left  did  our  best  to  work  the 
,  boat  and  keep  'en  up.  There  was  but  cocoa  for  'en  to 
:  drink,  and  by  Friday  the  Unity  made  the  bay.  Never  had 
I  I  been  so  glad  afore  to  pass  the  old  Hob's  nose.  'Twas 
I  coming  in  darkish  and  the  shore-lights  began  to  start. 
I  The  skipper's  little  house  looks  out  right  over  the  bay,  and 
i  most  the  first  lights  o'  Brixham  that  you  see  is  from  their 
1  windows.  That's  what  I  was  looking  for,  and  then  I  seed 
I  *em,  two  little  points  of  yellow  from  the  cliffs.  Now  I'd 
'  seen  one  light  scores  o'  times,  but  now  they'd  a  light  up- 
;  stairs  and  down.     Then  I  went  below. 

"  'Jim,'  says  I,  'there's  two  lights  up  home-along.' 


I 

88  A  Man  of  Genius  | 

"  'Then  the  cheeld's  come,'  saith  he;    'for  I  told  'em  to     I 
put  a  light  in  the  parlour  if  'twas  so  afore  I  got  in.' 

"I  signalled  for  help  the  minute  I  could,  and  they  got  'en 
up  to  hospital.  I  left  'en  patching  him  up,  whilst  I  stepped 
along  quick  to  get  the  news  about  'en  up  home  along. 

"  'Twas  a  bit  dim  in  the  passage,  and  afore  I'd  well  shut ' 
to  the  door  behind  me  there  was  a  bundle  shoved  into  my , 
arms  without  so  much  as  a  by-your-leave,  and  most  o'  Susan 
followed  it.     I'm  the  same  height  as  the  skipper,  and  Susan 
took  me  for  'en. 

"'Here's  a  present  for  'ee,  Jim,'  says  she,  'the  big 
boy  you've  been  wanting  so.'  They'd  had  but  little  maids : 
afore.  Then  her  called  out,  for  her'd  found  her  mistake. 
Now,  I'm  timid  mostly,  but  that  night,  with  the  bustle  I'd 
been  in  for  days,  I'd  ha'  kissed  a  boat-load  of  girls  as  easy 
as  winked.  So  I  just  held  tight  to  her  and  the  bundle,  and 
says  I — 

"  'But  where's  my  present,  Susan?'  And  somehow  her 
give  it  to  me." 

Ambrose  watched  Prust's  sea-blue  eyes  grow  misty,  like  the 
steely  surface  of  the  sea  when  the  grey  mist  touches  it  vv^ith 
fairy  fingers,  for  Susan  and  Michael  were  beautiful  lovers  still. 

Ambrose  was  silent  in  wonder,  for  this  rough  man  had 
found  beauty  in  a  human  relationship  that  he  himself  knew, 
as  yet,  but  by  the  pulsing  of  the  blood. 

Suddenly  they  all  started  to  their  feet. 

"Hark,  what's  that?"  said  one. 

Muffled  by  the  layers  of  mist  there  came  the  rush 
horses'  hoofs  and  the  shouts  of  men. 

"A  ship  ashore  in  the  fog  betwixt  Damehole  and  Berry!" 
shouted  a  coastguardsman,  as  they  hurried  to  the  door  of 
the  yard. 

"Come  on,  soce!"  yelled  Michael,  starting  off  towards 
the  sea.     "I  know  the  spot  where  it'll  be." 


The  King  of  Shadows  89 

Into  the  peaceful  dreaminess  of  sleepy  talk  there  came 
like  an  avalanche  the  rush  of  intense  excitement  as,  guided 
by  Michael  who  knew  the  cliffs  better  than  the  coastguard, 
they  leapt  the  low  field  walls  and  plunged  amid  gorse  and 
heather  down  the  steep  sides  of  the  valley,  till  they  reached  a 
spot  whence  they  could  clearly  hear  the  waves  breaking 
below. 

"Here,  mates!"  shouted  Prust  to  the  coastguard,  who 
were  wandering  like  dogs  on  a  false  scent. 

Ambrose  stood  behind  him,  looking  down  on  the  dim 
outline  of  a  vessel  that  seemed  directly  under  the  over- 
hanging brow  of  the  clifT,  though  in  reality  it  was  several 
yards  out.  Through  the  blanket  of  fog  there  came  up  to 
them  the  sound  of  hoarse  cries  in  some  foreign  tongue  that 
sounded  like  furious  quarrelling. 

"Here,"  shouted  Michael  to  Bombie,  the  chief  coast- 
guardsman,  "down  over  the  cliff  'tis  for  'ee.  I'll  give  'ee  a 
lead,  and  mind  your  footing.  'Tis  pretty  nigh  like  the  side 
of  a  house." 

On  hands  and  knees  and  clinging  to  every  foothold  in 
the  almost  nocturnal  darkness,  the  men  dropped  over  the 
cliff  edge.  Ambrose  moved  forward  with  his  tongue  cling- 
ing to  the  roof  of  his  mouth;  then  he  stood  still  suddenly, 
like  one  with  poison  creeping  slowly  through  his  veins. 
Below  he  could  see  the  deck  of  the  strange  ship  right 
beneath  his  feet.  Then,  as  he  peered  downward,  the  mist 
wavered  for  a  second,  and  he  saw  the  leaden  waves  licking 
the  rocks  with  curling,  hungry  tongues.  The  sea  was  snarl- 
ing, green  and  livid,  above  its  rocky  bed.  He  turned  sick 
as  at  the  sight  of  a  hideous  upheaval  of  human  vileness, 
and  as  the  mist  covered  his  hair  with  a  thick  coating  of 
tiny  drops,  the  clammy  sweat  burst  out  from  every  pore  of 
his  body. 

He  lay  face  downwards  towards  the  cliff-edge,  peeping 


90  A  Man  of  Genius 

into  the  cauldron  of  vapour  with  the  snarling,  coiling  tongue 
of  green  and  livid  spume  below.  Shouts  came  up,  and  he 
could  hear  Bombie  yell — 

"You  must  clear  out.  Tide  turns  in  half  an  hour,  and 
the  ship's  breaking  up!" 

"A  chap  with  a  chest  like  a  hogshead,"  thought  Am 
brose,  trying  to  pour  contempt  on  a  man  who  had  done  sc 
easily  what  he  himself  could  not.  It  seemed  like  an  evil 
dream,  from  the  first  coming  of  the  mist  fingers  to  the 
time  that  there  leapt  at  him  from  the  cliff  this  revelation  of 
his  own  fear.  Why  had  he  been  unable  to  fling  himself 
down  the  unseen  path  to  the  licking  waters  below? 

Ambrose  slunk  away  unnoticed,  when  heads  began  once 
more  to  appear  on  the  cliff  side,  but  he  knew  what  was 
happening  from  the  sounds.  The  crew,  French  apparently, 
were  drunk,  but  ultimately  each  man  of  them  appeared, 
clasping  fondly  a  jar  of  liquor  and  supported  by  coast- 
guardsmen. 

"Stark  mutiny  and  worse,"  fumed  Bombie.  "First  thing 
I  tumbled  upon  was  a  pack  of  cards  upon  deck  and  the 
mate  asleep  by  'em." 

A  man  lay  down  close  to  young  Velly's  feet  and  began 
sucking  at  the  jar  he  carried,  while  Bombie  aimed  a  kick  at 
the  sneering  face. 

By  the  time  the  fog  had  lifted,  twenty-three  men  were 
camping  out  in  the  barns  at  Blegberry,  but  Ambrose  still 
lay  cold  and  stiff  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff;  over  and  over 
again  he  saw  the  same  scene;  man  after  man  climbing 
down  where  he  dared  not  go.  Old  Prust's  tale  of  bewitch- 
ment, of  the  circle  of  trouble,  occurred  to  his  mind  as  an 
explanation  of  this  sudden  powerlessness  that  had  come 
upon  him. 

But  he  knew  very  well  that,  after  all,  it  came  from  within; 
since  for  every  power  that  a  man  possesses  he  pays  toll  in 


The  King  of  Shadows  91 

a  corresponding  weakness,  and  straightforwardness  is  only 
too  apt  to  go  with  hardness,  and  power  of  thought  with  in- 
capacity for  action.  Probably  the  artist  pays  the  heaviest 
toll  of  all;  for  from  his  vivid  realisation  of  pain  and  joy 
there  spring  that  tendency  to  shrink  from  danger  that 
we  call  cowardice,  and  that  egotistic  pursuit  of  sensuous 
joys  that  we  call  sensuality.  Ambrose  lay  for  a  long  time 
face  to  face  with  the  unknown  depths  of  moral  weakness  that 
he  suspected  now  to  be  his  inheritance.  For  to  a  lad  born 
within  sight  of  the  cliffs,  the  fear  of  that  dangling  journey 
between  land  and  sea  is  shame  inexpressible. 

The  tide  was  turning  now  and  the  mist  rising,  when 
Ambrose  perceived  a  knot  of  men  hurrying  up  the  slope  of 
Smoothlands,  carrying  ropes  and  an  iron  stanchion.  In- 
stinct drove  him  after  them  till  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  looking  down  on  the  strata  that  curved  into  a  series 
of  semicircles,  forming  the  entrance  to  a  cave  that  echoed 
with  the  imprisoned  tide. 

"The  cowardly  hounds!"  said  a  man  at  his  elbow. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"Left  a  man's  body  behind  and  never  said  so.  Fell  over- 
board when  she  struck,  and  a  lad  says  he's  been  carried 
into  the  wash  of  the  old  cave." 

Ambrose  watched  the  men  drive  the  stanchion  into  the 
ground,  for  from  this  the  line  was  to  hang  by  which  a 
coastguardsman  would  descend  the  cliff.  As  he  kicked  off 
his  shoes  a  blindness  descended  upon  him,  but  his  will 
conquered  and  he  pushed  his  way  forward,  dragging  slow 
feet,  with  the  sweat  drops  on  his  skin. 

"I'll  go  down  over,"  he  said  in  an  unnaturally  loud  voice. 
"I'm  lightest  weight." 

"Better  way  let  a  trained  man  go,"  said  Bombie  doubt- 
fully. "Do  'ee  know  where  to  look  for  'en?  I  doubt  but 
you'll  make  a  mull  of  it." 


g2  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I'm  damned  if  I  will,"  said  Ambrose,  getting  warmer 
as  he  felt  the  eyes  of  the  ring  of  men  fixed  on  him.  The 
next  moment  he  could  have  struck  the  coastguardsman  for 
taking  the  offer  without  any  expression  of  astonishment. 
The  man's  red  cheeks,  suffused  with  blood,  his  strained 
and  puffy  eyes,  his  great  trunk  were  revolting  to  the  lad. 

"A  pottle-bellied  ass,"  said  Ambrose,  talking  to  him- 
self. But  Bombie  took  no  notice,  and  merely  adjusted  the 
rope. 

The  first  step  over  cliff  edge  would  be  like  a  leap  into 
eternity,  but  Ambrose  felt  it  was  far  off  yet.  It  would  not 
come  till  ages  had  passed,  and  he  must  live  in  the  fear  of 
it.  The  next  moment  it  came  suddenly,  as  a  thing  leaping 
out  of  the  darkness,  and  he  was  at  the  verge,  noting  as  a 
strange  phenomenon  the  quivering  of  the  sea-thrift  along 
the  edge  of  the  cliff  in  the  wind  that  blew  inland.  He 
paused  for  a  moment  to  compare  this  incessant  shiver 
with  the  stillness  of  the  grasses  on  the  flat  surface  of  the 
cliff.  Then  there  came,  from  very  far  off,  a  shout — and 
he  stepped  into  nothingness,  feeling  only  the  sickening 
strain  of  the  rope  under  his  weight.  He  wondered  vaguely 
that  it  should  bear  him  at  all,  but  he  was  more  interested 
in  the  grey  beards  of  lichen  that  he  saw  as  he  passed  down- 
wards, hand  over  hand.  Then  from  the  lichen  beards  he 
went  on  to  think  of  Speke's  Mouth  Waterfall,  for  he  knew 
that  if  one  gazed  long  enough  at  the  falling  sheet  of  water 
there,  the  still  cliffs  on  each  side  seemed,  w^ien  one  turned 
one's  eyes  on  them,  to  be  gliding  upwards.  They  were,  he 
noted,  doing  so  now,  like  black  polished  slugs. 

As  he  watched  his  clasping  hands  and  his  springing 
muscles  a  sense  of  elation  came,  and  in  the  stillness  he 
shouted  to  the  waters  and  the  sea  wind.  At  this  moment 
of  mastery  he  tasted  the  supreme  bliss  of  life — the  conquest 
of  the  will  over  those  inner  powers  that  threaten  so  often  to 


The  King  of  Shadows  93 

betray  us,  the  cowardice,  lu^t,  or  rage  tliat  makes  us  slaves. 
With  this  joy  came  the  most  vivid  picture  he  had  ever  seen: 
the  sanctuary  ring  in  Hartland  Church;  for  the  hunted 
criminal  in  himself  was  saved.  The  next  instant  his  feet 
touched  the  foot  of  the  clitT  and  tlie  waves  caught  his  legs 
with  a  rush  of  spray. 

And  brought  a  new  shuddering:  the  picture  of  the  grey 
pebbles  in  the  pools  that  the  tide  left  between  the  two  walls 
of  rock;   so  would  look  a  dead  face,  livid,  iron-grey. 

The  next  moment,  churning  in  the  sickening  thud,  thud 
of  the  breakers,  he  had  seen  it — the  quiet  face,  the  hair  just 
stirring  in  the  suck  of  the  water,  the  partially  clothed  limbs. 

At  the  sight  his  fear  was  gone,  for  the  dead  face  was  no 
more  terrible  than  the  eyes  of  the  old  sheep-dog  at  Long 
Furlong;  he  had  looked  in  the  face  of  the  King  of  Shadows, 
and  lo!  there  was  no  more  shuddering  in  it  than  in  the  sun 
at  noonday.  With  a  thankful  laugh  he  proceeded  with  his 
task,  the  fastening  of  the  body  to  the  rope. 

His  own  ascent  was  made  as  lightly  as  any  sailor  lad 
could  have  done  it.  The  gleam  of  the  bird's-foot  trefoil 
below  his  hands  as  he  clutched  the  slippery  grass  on  the 
summit  was  the  loveliest  thing  his  eyes  had  ever  lighted  on; 
below,  the  dankness  of  weed,  the  lapping  of  waves  on  black, 
jagged  ridges;  above,  the  gold  of  trefoil,  the  scent  of 
heather-honey,  peace  and  safety  and — mastery. 

It  was  the  moment  of  moments;  for  satisfied  desire  is 
often  bitter  in  the  after-draught,  but  by  the  conquest  of  our 
weakness  we  become  as  gods. 

As  they  bore  the  body  of  the  French  sailor  up  to  Bleg- 
berry,  Ambrose  felt  that  extraordinary  powers  of  observation 
were  his  just  now;  he  seemed  to  have  got  down  to  the 
bones  of  things,  to  the  beating  heart  of  everything  he  saw. 
A  frenzy  possessed  him  to  draw  the  stark  form  and  the 
battered  head  over  which  some  fool  had  thrown  a  coat. 


94  A  Man  of  Genius 

Bombie,  a  savage,  laughed  Ambrose  to  himself;  he  himself' 
was  the  bold  savage  now,  for  he  lusted  to  draw  a  dead  man. 

When  they  were  opposite  the  old  stone  well-house  of 
Blegberry,  Ambrose  saw  the  dead  flowers  of  every  "penny- 
pie'*  that  grew  in  the  interstices  of  the  stone  as  he  had 
never  noticed  them  before,  even  when  he  made  a  sketch  of 
the  well.  The  iron  dipper  with  the  hole  in  it  had  been 
mischievously  thrown  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  one 
of  the  bearers  kicked  it  aside  as  Ambrose  walked  in  the* 
procession. 

Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on  the  protruding  feet  of  the  man  ,, 
they  carried;  there  was  a  darn,  in  some  lighter  wool,  on  thetjj 
rough  blue  sock,  a  darn  perhaps  made  by  a  woman's  hand.      [ 

At  the  pity  of  it,  the  men  and  the  well  faded,  and  he 
heard  some  one  call  out — 

"Hullo,  hold  up!  what's  this?" 

A  minute  later  there  came  the  cold  splash  of  water  in  his 
face,  and  he  found  himself  lying  on  the  road  with  his  head 
on  a  blue- jersey ed  arm. 

"Turned  'ee  a  bit  sickish,  did  it?"  said  Michael  Prust 
philosophically;  "you've  got  your  mother's  milk  still  in  'ee, 
my  sonny." 

But  Ambrose  wondered  dully  how  the  water  had  been 
dipped  from  the  well  in  a  dipper  that  had  no  bottom  to  it. 
Then  he  raged  at  the  thought  that  a  man  who  had  just  been 
over  cliff  should  be  associated  with  mother's  milk.  He  got 
up  hastily  with  the  sensation  of  having  fallen  off  a  pedestal. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  LAW  OF  LIFE 

THE  next  morning  Damaris  Westaway  stood  looking 
down  on  the  sheltered  cove,  east  of  Hartland  Point, 
that  is  called  Shipload  Bay.  The  sea  was  gleaming  in 
pools  of  rose-red  shadow,  that  broadened  here  and  there 
into  glittering  mirrors  of  steel-blue  as  the  sun  emerged 
from  a  smouldering  bank  of  cloud  mountains.  Broader 
the  light  grew  and  more  vivid,  till  the  eyes  ached  with  the 
jreflection  of  it. 

Dancing  in  the  foam  at  the  line  where  the  breakers 
seethed  there  was  one  human  figure.  Seen  from  the  cliffs 
[above  as  it  ran  across  the  sand,  it  seemed  to  be  racing  the 
cloud  shapes  that  threw  their  shadow  on  the  sea.  Coming 
jdown  the  cliff  path,  Damaris  watched  the  pinkish  figure 
(dancing  by  the  side  of  its  hard,  black  shadow,  and  when 
I  she  reached  the  sand  she  could  hear  the  sound  of  singing 
;in  a  clear,  half-boyish  soprano.  There  seemed  to  be  no 
I  words,  but  the  harmony  of  voice  and  sea  and  wind  was 
'complete,  for  it  was  the  wordless  hour  of  joy  that  knows 
no  thought,  no  fear  of  the  future,  no  after-taste  of  the 
I  past. 

;  Damaris  knew  the  singer  very  well,  for  Thyrza  Braund 
I  had  been  quite  the  best  dancer  in  the  class  that  she  had 
{Conducted  during  the  winter.  Thyrza  also  possessed  an 
'additional  interest  as  forming  part  of  the  Velly  household; 
there  was  even  in  the  freshness  of  her  simplicity  something 
I  95 


96  A  Man  of  Genius 


ii 


of  the  charm  that  radiated  from  Ambrose  himself,  for  be 
were  frankly  in  love  with  themselves — Ambrose  with  1 
brain,  Th)Tza  with  her  body. 

''It  is  sweet  to  lie  in  the  sun";    such  was  the  sum  tol 
of  Thyrza  Braund's  philosophy,   and  the  only  differen 
between  her  outlook  and  that  of  a  little  animal  was  tbi 
she  was  sensitive  to  more  kinds  of  sunshine  than  the  anim; 
She  loved  nothing  savagely  or  greedily,  but  all  pleasa 
things  sanely.     The  perfection  of  her  own  body  gave  h' 
the  sense  of  being  at  home  in  the  world;   she  set  her  tee 
in  the  bread  and  cream  and  licked  her  lips  after  it  as  merri, 
as  the  most  immoral  cat  that  ever  roved  a  dairy;    she  p: 
her  lips  to  the  cider  as  a  bee  might  have  rifled  a  clove| 
head.     In  summer  lands  she  would  have  sucked  the  purpl 
grape-skins  dry  with  the  pouting  lips  of  a  Hebe,  as  a  moth 
would  have  taken  the  same  pleasure  in  her  little  ones  \ 
a  hen  with  downy  ducklings.     All  unkindness  was  foreij; 
to  her  nature,  for  she  basked  even  more  happily  in  humj' 
sunshine  than  in  physical.     The  crystal  clearness  of  h 
simple  heart  was  an  instinctive  appeal  to  "  Mother  Damaris 
who  felt  about  such  human  butterflies  as  this  what  Luth 
felt  when  he  watched  his  little  Magdalen  venturing  aloi  j 
into  the  unknown  universe  that  waits  on  the  other  side  >'  3 
death;  for  the  big  world  is  a  strange  place  for  little  souls  1   ' 
wander  in. 
At  last  Damaris  called  to  her —  j 

''Thyrza,  Thyrza  Braund!"  i 

The  girl  started,  glancing  seaward  and  landward  an^  I 
skyward,  as  if  doubtful  whether  the  voice  were  of  earth  c!  i 
heaven.     Then  she  laughed.  ,  | 

"Why,  Miss  Damaris,  I  never  knew  there  was  a  sov  , 
near,"  she  said.  • 

She  was  not  painfully  embarrassed,  for  she  danced  up  tbi 
beach  on  bare  toes,  splashing  through  all  the  pools,  an 


The  Law  of  Life  97 

singing  to  herself.     As  she  came  nearer  Damaris  could  dis- 
tinguish the  words: — 

"I've  got  one  lover  and  I  don't  want  two." 

Damaris  frowned,  for  her  own  sentiment,  in  view  of  the 
^aves  and  wind,  had  been  ralluT  — 
"  Holy,  Holy,  Holy. 

"Why,  Thyrza,"  she  said,  "you're  quite  mad  to-day. 
And  how  is  it  you're  out  like  this?" 

"I  done  up  all  my  work,  and  I  wasn't  well  yesterday," 
said  the  girl  shyly,  "so  Mrs.  Velly  sent  me  out." 

Damaris  glanced  for  a  second  at  the  angry  red  and  white 
ripple  marks  that  scarred  ThjTza's  neck,  for  she  was  slightly 
marked  with  the  king's  evil.  Catching  her  eye,  the  girl 
covered  her  neck  with  her  hands,  exclaiming — 

"I'm  spoilt  with  this.  I  always  feel  it's  there;  and  I  get 
to  mind  it  more  and  more  as  I  grow  older." 

"But  you  have  always  had  it,  so  that  it's  nothing  new  to 
you.     Why  should  you  care  more  about  it  now?" 

"Because  there's  somebody  that  I  like — like — like  very 
much.  And  I  thought  he'd  hate  me  for  it.  I  wanted  to 
be  clean  and  whole  for  'en,"  she  whispered  as  she  began 
to  dress. 

Damaris  understood,   for   her  chief  gift   was  a  certain 

power  of  projecting  herself  into  the  lives  of  others.     Even 

now,  in  the  sore  trouble  of  her  thoughts  about  her  father 

j  and  his  changing  life,  she  was  able  to  live  with  Thyrza  for 

a  few  minutes. 

"Yes,"  she  said  slowly,  "one  would  wish  to  be  perfect 
for  the  man  one  loves.  But,  Thyrza,  you  must  always 
remember  that  a  stain  on  our  hearts  hurts  those  we  love  far 
more  than  a  bodily  blemish  could  do." 

In  awe  at  this  serious  tone,  Thyrza  looked  up  from  her 
task  of  fastening  her  shoes. 


98  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Why  am  I  marked  same  as  this?'*  she  asked. 

"  'Tis  for  your  forefathers'  faults,  they  say." 

"But  what  have  I  done  to  have  they  forefathers?'* 

"Ah,   Thyrza,   that's  the  riddle  of  the  world.     If  we 

could  answer  that,  we  should  know  all  about  ourselves." 

"But   it   wasn't   his  forefathers   that   brought   all   this: 

trouble  on  poor  John  Darracott,"  cried  Thyrza,  rushing 

into  the  trouble  that  was  constantly  recurring  to  her  mind.| 

"Oh,  they  speak  shameful  of  'en.     They  say  he  told  a  lie' 

when  he  swore  he  was  on  the  look-out  that  night.     But 

it  isn't  true,  for  I  know  'en  better  than  that  comes  to. 

And  he's  going  to  get  the  sack,  they  say;  and  there's  nobody 

to  throw  'en  a  good  word,  and  he  never  speaks  to  anybody 

now."  i 

I 
So  this,  thought  Damaris,  was  the  secret  of  the  distress 

at  the  marred  neck. 

"Never  mind,  Thyrza,"  she  said;  "there's  going  to  be; 
a  Board  of  Trade  enquiry,  and  that  will  probably  clear  his' 
name." 

"And  till  then  he's  to  bear  all  their  scandalising  without 
a  word,"  said  Thyrza,  with  heaving  breast. 

"Suppose,"  said  Damaris  slowly,  "that  Darracott's 
trouble  should  put  an  end  to  a  bad  system  and  bring  back 
the  old  way  of  watching  the  coast.  Wouldn't  it  be  worth 
while  for  him  to  bear  a  little  cruel  gossip?" 

"No,  it  wouldn't.  For  why  should  they  tell  lies  about 
'en?  'Tis  bad  enough  for  'en  to  feel  the  lives  gone.  My 
father  was  a  pilot  for  twenty  years,  and  I  know  what  it 
would  ha'  been  to  him."  ; 

"Come  here,"  said  Damaris,  thinking  more  of  Thyrza | 
than  of  Darracott,  "come  and  sit  by  me.  I  don't  know 
who  it  is  that  likes — likes — likes  you." 

"He  doesn't.  'Tis  I  that  likes  him.  'Tis  maidens  after 
men,  these  ways,  you  know,"  dimpled  Thyrza. 


The  Law  of  Life  99 

"Well,  whoever  it  is,  wait  and  be  sure  that  it's  the  right 
one;  for  if  it's  the  wrong  one,  he'll  spoil  you  more  than 
ever  these  marks  can  do." 

"Eh,  dear,"  said  Thyrza  frankly,  '*I  don't  mind  men  no 
more'n  I  do  varmints  and  angle-twitches.  They'm  all 
living,  and  that's  enough  for  me.     I  like  what's  alive." 

"Yes,"  said  Damaris,  "we  want  the  touch  of  strength 
that  a  man  can  give  us.  But  sometimes  we've  to  wait  all 
our  lives  for  the  right  touch." 

"I  shall  try  and  be  struck  for  the  marks,"  said  Thyrza, 
turning  Damaris's  words  to  literal  account.  "They  say  that 
if  you  lay  the  hand  of  a  dead  person  on  'em,  they'll  go." 

Tremblingly  she  thought  in  a  flash  of  the  French  sailor 
whose  body  lay  at  Blegberry.  "Anyway,"  she  whispered, 
"they  say  you'll  never  have  a  baby  with  the  marks." 

Damaris  took  the  girl's  hand,  all  roughened  with  work,  in 
her  own  long,  student's  hands,  thinking,  as  she  did  so,  of 
the  power  of  imaginative  sympathy  shown  by  the  child  in 
her  sorrow  for  Darracott,  in  her  tender  thought  of  mother- 
hood.   After  all,  the  root  of  things  was  in  Thyrza. 

"A  baby  with  a  neck  all  lily-white,"  she  said;  "that's 
what  you  want,  is  it?" 

Thyrza's  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  teais. 

"Eh,  my  Lord,"  she  whispered,  "how  you  know  things!" 

"Listen,  Thyrza.  There  is  more  than  one  way  of  love. 
There's  instinct;  that's  of  the  animals.  Women  don't 
know  much  of  that,  thank  God.  Anyway,  it's  not  first  with 
them.  Then  there's  the  glory  that  is  all  a  dream  of  a  few 
weeks.  It  passes,  but  it  gives  us  the  things  women  want, 
little  lips  that  kiss,  little  hands  that  cling." 

"That's  it,"  said  Thyrza,  sobbing.  "How  did  'ee  know 
— to  say  it?" 

But  Damaris  did  not  know;  she  only  dreamt,  as  women  do. 

"And,"  she  went  on,  after  a  long  pause  filled  by  the 


loo  A  Man  of  Genius 

roar  of  the  wind  and  the  sea  and  the  throbbing  of  two 
tender  hearts,  "there's  a  third  love.    The  love  that  is  all  |i 
star-like,  that  points  upwards,  that  leads  to  the  great  heights 
where  the  body  is  not  felt,  and  the  child  of  that  love  is  m 
puny,  crying  babe  but  a  great  deed  that  we  call  divine." 

Thyrza  looked  awe-stricken,  then  she  said  timidly 
''That's  lonesome — and  cold,"  she  added. 

''And  not  for  you  nor  me,"  laughed  Damaris. 

Somehow  Th)a-2a's  face  had  grown  suddenly  quiet; 
nothing  of  her  former  joy  danced  in  her  eyes. 

"The  sea's  quieter,"  she  said  as  they  climbed  up  the 
cliff.  "I  always  know  how  the  sea  is,  and  when  there's 
a  storm  I'm  mad-like.  When  a  maid's  like  that  she  bears 
her  children  to  the  flow  of  tide  and  goes  out  with  the  ebb. 
I  know  how  the  tide  is  day  and  night.  Even  if  you  was 
to  wake  me  sudden,  I  should  know." 

Damaris  looked  out  to  sea  and  noticed  that  the  mist  was 
closing  in  over  the  horizon. 

"Mother  bore  me  in  a  storm,"  said  Thyrza;  "and  the 
months  afore  I  came,  her  was  never  out  of  sound  of  the 
gulls.     I  mind  her  saying  that  ever  so  many  times.'* 

"Do  you  believe  all  that?"  asked  Damaris. 

"  'Tis  true  as  the  Book,"  answered  Thyrza. 

At  the  top  of  the  cliff  they  parted,  and  Damaris  turned 
back  towards  the  village. 

Hartland  lies  several  miles  inland  from  the  cliffs,  a  group 
of  low  buildings  crouching  under  blackened  thatch  or  grey 
slate  roofs,  with  little  windows  set  deep  in  whitewashed 
walls.  The  narrow  streets  look  windswept  even  in  bright 
sunshine.  An  ancient  plane  tree  leans  against  the  end  of 
Dr.  Dayman's  house,  if  anything  so  prim  as  a  plane  tree 
can  be  said  to  lean.  The  house,  with  its  wide  porch  and 
niggard  window-spaces,  had  been  the  Manor  House  of  the 
Prust  family,  in  the  days  when  the  village  was  a  borough 


The  Law  of  Life  i  o  i 

►wn  with  a  charter  dating  from  the  thirteenth  century. 

It  is  a  place  of  wide  light,  where  the  north  wind  seems  to 

|l)Iow  perpetually,  yet  the  hydrangea  clusters  in  the  gardens, 

he  lemon-scented  verbenas  and  flowering  myrtles  bear  wit- 

liiess  to  the  softness  of  the  sea-wind  that  blows  inland  from 

he  echoing  clifTs. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  village  Damaris  met  Dr.  Dayman, 
rho  at  sight  of  her  face,  dismounted,  and  holding  the 
nidle  under  his  arm,  prepared  to  walk  back  with  her. 

*'You  don't  look,"  said  he,  "as  if  you'd  slept  very  well 
last  night." 

"Father  told  me  what  you  already  know,"  she  said, 
"about  what  he  means  to  do." 

"And  it's  upset  you." 

"Dr.  Dayman,"  she  said,  turning  on  him  angrily,  ''don't 
lyou  see  that  it  takes  away  the  only  interest  in  my  life,  cuts 
it  off  clean?  For  here  I  had  found  work  to  do;  I  could 
help,  even  more  than  father  could,  and  now  there'll  be 
nothing  left  for  me  but  to  keep  house  for  him  and  see  he 
doesn't  catch  cold.  For  I  have  tried  hard  to  help  here. 
And  although  it's  only  a  little  place,  somehow  it  was  a 
human  link.     I  felt  part  of  a  big  family." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  call  you?  Yes,  you  do  quite 
well,  Mother  Damaris.  I  know  all  you've  done.  Dozens 
of  girls  pulled  up,  boys  turned  from  louts  into  humans. 
I  always  said  that  there  wasn't  anything  you'd  turn  your 
back  on;  nothing  too  low,  nothing  too  dirty  for  Mother 
Damaris  to  handle,  God' bless  her!" 

The  doctor  lifted  his  hat,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  at  his 
own  lexical  passages. 

"It'll  all  be  over  in  a  few  short  months,  I  suppose,"  said 
Damaris;  "for,  disguise  the  fact  as  you  will,  a  woman  is  a 
man's  shadow,  her  husband's,  her  father's.  I've  no  work 
to  do  because  I'm  Damaris  Westaway.     Only  I  was  given 


I02  A  Man  of  Genius  | 

a  little  because  I  was  my  father's  daughter.  Look  ats-; 
Caroline  Herschel,  washing  dishes  while  her  brothers! 
swept  the  heavens  with  their  telescopes,  and  she  with  long-; 
ings  as  keen  as  theirs." 

The  girl  had  been  very  lonely,  for  her  scholarly  training  j! 
had  unfitted  her  for  friendship  with  the  country  girls  of  ; 
her  own  class,  and  with  all  the  force  of  her  nature  she  il 
longed  to  do  what  she  called  'Uhe  real  things,"  to  be  in  i 
at  the  doing  of  tangible  tasks.     True,   she  wrote    notes  ■[ 
and  corrected  references  for  her  father,  but  she  had  more 
instinct  for  the  practical  than  the  scholarly  life.     She  had 
found,    therefore,    intense   happiness   in   the   nursing   Dr. 
Dayman  often  gave  her  to  do,  in  the  mental  healing  she  was 
sometimes  able  to  bring.     Although  she  was  honest  enough 
to  know  that  her  father  was  only  doing  the  straight  thing 
in  leaving  the  Church,  yet  the  blow  had  opened  her  eyes 
to  her  dependent  position. 

With  eyes  that  looked  straight  ahead  she  poured  out 
her  sorrows  to  Dr.  Dayman,  as  frankly  as  in  her  childish 
days  she  had  confided  to  him  the  broken  toys  that  he  used 
to  mend  for  her. 

"It  isn't  a  case  of  father  and  me  only.  It's  the  case 
of  one  sex  and  another,"  she  said. 

"And  one  generation  and  another,"  said  Dr.  Dayman 
quietly. 

"Perhaps  so.  Father  and  I  love  each  other  dearly. 
But  it's  the  way  life  treats  us  women,  that's  where  the 
trouble  lies." 

"Yes;  you've  no  locus  standi,  that's  the  trouble  of  it," 
said  Dr.  Dayman. 

"I  have  been  educated  to  think;  but  here  I  am  going 
to  be  left  with  nothing  to  think  about,  except  to  cultivate 
my  own  miserable  talents,  which  is  like  breathing  in  a 
bell-glass  where  there  is  no  communication  with  the  outer 


The  Law  of  Life  103 

air.    We're  always  being  pruned,  we  women.     Long  ago 

( they  pruned  our  morals  and  mutilated  our  hearts  by  ignor- 

'  ance  and  seclusion,  in  order  that  we  might  be  chaste,  that 

we  might  bear  children  honestly.     They  only  made  us  petty. 

jThey  couldn't  make  us  chaste  that  way,  not  chaste  with 

*  the  chastity  of  real  passion  that  keeps  pure  for  love's  dear 

sake.     But,  forgive  me,  Dr.  Dayman,  for  ramping  on  a 

platform." 

*'Gad,  Damaris,  keep  it  up,"  said  the  doctor,  counting 
an  ebullition  of  rage  a  first-class  feminine  febrifuge. 
I     "Now  they  prune  us  mentally,"  she  continued.     "Oh, 
'  yes,  they  give  us  books  and  toys  and  bid  us  play  happily 
in  our  nurseries,  the  schools  and  colleges  that  lead  no- 
j  where.     But  we  want  our  share  in  the  direction  of  the 
I  world;    we  want  to  train  our  powers  of  judgment  and 
!  responsibility  exactly  as  men  train  theirs — by  using  them. 
Why,  even  the  grocer  in  a  back  street  has  his  vision  above 
the  price  of  raisins,  his  vision  of  a  greater  people  to  be, 
if  it's  only  that  they'll  get  better  water  from  the  improved 
town-pump.     But  we  women  have  to  be  contented  with 
the  kitchen  water-tap.     We  mustn't  meddle  with  the  town- 
pump." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  "that  even  now 
;  you're  being  tested  in  your  powers  of  sharing  in  the  common 
j  life — and  you're  failing?  Would  it  be  well  for  your  father 
I  to  hold  office  in  an  organisation  that  he  no  longer  believes 
'■  in — even  to  satisfy  his  daughter's  craving  for  helping  lame 
I  dogs  over  stiles?" 

I      It  was  a  blow  between  the  eyes,  but  Damaris  was  made 
of  the  finer  stuff  that  can  take  blows. 

"You're  right,"  she  said  after  a  long  silence.  "But  I'm 
j  so  miserable.     Tell  me  what  I'm  to  do." 

"Put  out  of  your  mind  what's  going  to  happen  to  you 
next  month  or  next  year,  and  wait  quietly,    for  wherever 


I04  A  Man  of  Genius 

you're  blown  you'll  make  a  niche  for  yourself.  There  may 
be  going  to  be  greater  changes  than  you  think,"  he  said, 
remembering  that  the  upheaval  in  Mr.  Westaway's  life  was 
not  merely  religious. 

"I'll  try,"  said  Damaris  humbly.  "But  almost  worse  to 
bear  of  all  is  the  thought  of  what  hard  things  will  be  said 
of  father." 

"That  kind  of  thing,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  "evil  speaking, 
lying  and  slandering,  is  largely  a  matter  of  class;  for  the 
lower  the  breed,  the  more  savagely  the  human  birds  peck  a 
wounded  mate." 

Like  Thyrza,  Dr.  Dayman's  thoughts  often  turned  to 
John  Darracott,  for,  unlike  Thyrza,  he  wished  the  man 
would  leave  the  neighbourhood  instead  of  persisting  in  the 
struggle  against  calumny. 

That  evening  Darracott  sat  in  his  room,  with  his  head 
leaning  forward  on  his  breast,  going  over  and  over  again 
the  same  round  of  thoughts,  the  same  hopeless  speculations 
as  to  what  might  have  been  done  had  he  been  at  the  rocket- 
house.  He  counted  much  on  the  fact  that  it  would  have 
taken  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half  to  get  the  men  together 
at  Smoothlands,  and  in  all  probability  the  actual  wreck 
was  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes. 

It  was  nerve-shaking  to  him,  in  the  wall  of  isolation  that 
had  grown  around  him,  to  hear  a  low  tapping  on  his  door. 
He  glanced  round  the  room  before  he  went  to  open  it, 
feeling  ashamed  of  the  table  piled  high  with  dirty  plates, 
and  of  the  grate  thick  in  layers  of  ashes. 

On  the  doorstep  stood  Thyrza,  her  breath  catching  pain- 
fully from  nervousness.  Three  times,  indeed,  she  had 
walked  up  and  down  outside  the  house  before  venturing  to 
knock.  But  one  glance  at  Darracott's  face  brought  her 
the  pluck  that  rarely  fails  a  woman  in  desperate  straits,  her 
own,  or  another's. 


The  Law  of  Life  105 

**I  haven't  seen  'ee  for  so  long,  Mr.  Darracott,"  she  said 
calmly,  "that  I  thought  you  must  be  ill.     May  I  come  in?" 

"Surely,"  said  John,  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  echoing 
-trangely  in  his  ears.  He  was  still  working  at  the  farm, 
hut  from  his  master  he  heard  nothing  now  but  a  few  curt 
words  that  required  no  answer. 

Thyrza  was  glad  when  the  roar  of  the  waves  outside  was 
deadened  by  the  closing  of  the  door.  She  understood  how 
it  must  ring  in  Darracott's  ears  when  she  noticed  how  he 
started  at  the  shriek  of  the  gulls  overhead,  for  his  nerves 
were  quivering  like  those  of  a  horse  that  has  been  flogged. 

"It's  queer  to  think  I've  never  been  here  before,"  she 
said;  "but,  dear  me,  you  do  show  you're  a  bachelor  man. 
Now,  I'm  going  to  wash  up  some  of  your  things  for  you," 
she  continued,  turning  up  the  sleeves  of  her  dress,  and 
giving  him  a  little  shove  towards  the  steaming  kettle. 

"  'Tis  day  of  judgment  like  enough,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"to  have  him  grizzling  like  that,  leave  alone  seeing  his 
room  in  such  a  muck.  And  before  I  leave  I'll  have  his 
room  ship-shape,  and  that  look  out  of  his  face.  That  I 
will,  if  I  stay  here  all  night." 

Suddenly  Darracott  threw  down  the  tea-cloth  she  had 
thrust  into  his  hand. 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "it  won't  do.  You  meant 
kind  by  coming,  but  'tis  getting  darkish,  and  you  mustn't 
stay  no  longer." 

"John,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  in  the  darkening 
room  that  somehow  gave  her  greater  courage,  "night  and 
day  I  couldn't  get  'ee  out  of  my  mind.  So  I  couldn't  bide 
away  no  longer,  for  you're  in  sore  trouble,  John." 

In  the  repetition  of  his  name  she  felt  herself  calling  to 
be  admitted  to  the  depths  of  his  sorrow;  he  should  not  be 
alone  down  there,  she  said,  repeating  it  to  herself  again  and 
again  with  the  faith  that  moves  mountains. 


io6  A  Man  of  Genius 

His  ice-bound  heart  moved  for  a  second,  thrilling  in  the 
warm  beam  of  her  words  and  looks. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  gently,  "you  oughtn't  to  ha'  come; 
for  you're  a  maid  with  a  good  name  to  lose,  and  you  might 
ha'  been  seen  coming  here.  What's  to  be  borne,  I  can 
bear." 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  holding  his  arms  and  stretch- 
ing a-tip-toe  in  the  effort  to  comfort;  "do  you  think  that 
because  I'm  a  maid,  I'll  let  'ee  bear  trouble  alone?  Let 
me  help,  let  me  help,  John.  I  want  to  say  things  to  'ee, 
for  I  can't  bear  to  see  they  hard  eyes,  John — hard,  hopeless 
eyes." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  what  do  'ee  want?"  he  asked,  as  he 
felt  her  sobs  go  through  him.  "'Tisn't  as  if  you  cared  for 
me.  Thank  God,  you  don't  as  'tis,"  he  said,  loosening  her 
hands. 

"Why?"  she  asked  sharply,  standing  very  upright  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  stamping  her  foot.  "What's  all 
this  fuss  about?  I  know  everything  that  there  is  to  know. 
The  Flying  Foam  wasn't  even  seaworthy,  jibs  all  wrong  and 
head  sails  worse.  And  for  all  a  body  can  tell,  with  no 
signals  aboard  to  send  up.  What's  all  that  got  to  do  with 
you  ?  The  lying  devils  to  take  away  a  man's  name  same  as 
this  is!  And  you,  too,  to  sit  down  and  bear  it  like  this! 
I'm  ashamed  of  you,  John  Darracott;  and  I'm  glad,  I'm 
glad,  you  and  me's  not  keeping  company.  There,"  she 
cried,  stamping  her  foot  again;  "you're  a  poor  spirited 
thing,  a  regular  toad  under  a  harrow.  And  I'm  sorry  I 
come  here  to-night,  that  I  be." 

She  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"Thyrza,"  said  Darracott,  in  a  tone  that  stopped  her 
sobbing,  "do  you  know  what  'tis  they  say  about  me?'* 

"Yes,"  she  whispered;  "they  say  you  wasn't  there." 

"And  it's  true  what  they  say,"  he  answered;   "it's  quite 


The  Law  of  Life 


107 


true.  I  lay  across  that  there  table  and  slept — and  out- 
side  " 

He  made  a  gesture  toward  the  heaving  sea  below,  and 
was  silent. 

Thyrza  had  often  stood  by  men  when  they  do  the  work 
that  tests  their  manhood;  she  understood  in  an  instant 
what  this  confession  must  mean  to  him.  But  in  a  flash 
her  pity  pierced  to  the  heart  of  his  agony. 

"Oh,  John,"  she  said,  pushing  him  into  a  chair,  and 
thrusting  herself  into  his  arms  in  a  hard,  fierce  eager- 
ness to  comfort;  *'John,  John,  you  must  ha'  been  worn 
out!" 

**But  nothing'll  ever  bring  back  they  lives,  nothing'll 
make  me  the  same  as  I  was  before  that  night,"  he  said, 
while  he  held  her  close  in  the  mere  comfort  of  humanity 
that  shared  the  pain. 

"But,"  she  said  in  low  tones,  "I  don't  believe  but  what 
you'll  be  allowed  some  day  to  pay  it  back.  John,  some 
day  you'll  pay  it  back." 

"You  thought  of  that  too,  Thyrza.  And  so  did  I.  Ay, 
though  you  don't  love  me,  us  think  the  same  thoughts." 

"And  you  didn't  know  what  you  was  doing."  She  knew 
well  what  the  weariness  of  a  field  labourer  can  be. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  of  telling  her  the  part  she  had 
played  in  his  failure,  for  in  the  relief  of  partial  confession 
he  saw  how  a  full  confession  would  comfort.  Then  he 
rejected  the  idea  of  shadowing  her  brightness  with  such 
an  idea,  and  in  the  rejection  of  this  temptation  there  blew 
on  his  heart  the  first  faint  breath  of  returning  self-respect. 

"I  slept  like  a  log,"  he  said  evasively.  "But  you  don't 
I  I  shrink  from  me,  and  that's  something.  Thyrza,  you'd  feel 
it  more  if  you  loved  me,  wouldn't  'ee,  my  dear?" 

She  was  silent,  but  they  both  knew  it  to  be  true.  Then 
he  got  up  and  gently  put  her  down. 


io8  A  Man  of  Genius 

"John,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "hadn't  'ee  better  say  it 
out  open  to  everybody,  same  as  you  have  to  me?" 

"'Tisn't  in  me  to  do  it,  not  after  what  I  swore.  No 
mortal  man  could  do  it." 

"And  I've  done  no  good  by  coming,"  she  said  sadly,  as 
he  opened  the  door. 

Shutting  it  once  more,  he  came  back  and,  putting  his 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  looked  down  into  her  eyes. 

"Thyrza,"  he  said  steadily,  "you've  done  more  than 
ever  I  could  tell  'ee.  When  you  knocked  at  the  door  I  was 
thinking  there  was  but  one  way  for  me.  But  I  know  now 
that  death's  cowardice.  I've  got  to  bide  on,  till  the  time 
comes  when  I  can  do  what  you  said." 

"Pay  back,"  she  whispered. 

"Iss,  lass;   pay  back." 

The  half-latched  door  burst  open,  and  as  the  waves 
sounded  nearer,  he  said,  "There'll  come  a  way  if  only  I 
bide  long  enough." 

In  that  moment  there  came  to  them  both  from  the  sea 
the  clear  call  of  things  high  and  hard,  the  things  that  the 
struggle  with  nature  has  always  called  for,  the  great  renun- 
ciations that  no  history  records,  for  they  are  written  only  in 
the  annals  of  lives  which  end  in  unmarked  graves. 

"John,"  whispered  Thyrza,  "will  'ee  give  me  the  box  you 
made  for  me?" 

It  was  in  her  hand  as  they  walked  along  the  road  to 
Long  Furlong. 

Earlier  in  the  evening  Ambrose  Velly  sat  drawing  in  the 
farm  kitchen.  There  was  a  certain  savagery  about  the 
great  slashing  strokes  with  which  he  worked,  till  at  length 
he  tore  the  paper.  With  a  half-oath  he  seized  another 
sheet,  flinging  the  first  on  the  floor  by  his  side. 

The  night  was  still,  and  a  faint  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 
crooned  in  at  the  open  doorway.     Suddenly  a  branch  of 


li 


The  Law  of  Life  1 09 

wood,  hissing  in  the  embers,  gave  out  a  ripping  sound,  and 
in  the  nerve-tension  of  the  moment,  Ambrose  started. 
Then  he  flung  down  his  charcoal  and  laid  his  head  on  his 
hands.  He  could  see  the  ring  of  sunburnt  faces,  the  out- 
stretched figure  of  the  French  sailor  in  their  midst. 

But  what  he  saw  was  not  on  the  paper,  for  his  hand 
refused  obedience.  Slowly  he  tore  the  second  sheet  across 
and  began  laboriously  to  draw  the  well-house  at  Blegberry. 
The  drawing  was  a  model  of  accurate  memory-work,  and 
the  completion  of  it  a  bitter  exercise  in  self-humiliation,  for, 
like  a  man  who  has  set  out  to  conceive  a  design  of  traceried 
arches,  he  ended  by  building  a  four-square  pigsty. 

Leaving  his  drawing  on  the  table,  at  last  Ambrose  went 
out  of  the  house,  ostensibly  to  stretch  his  limbs,  really  to 
find  Thyrza.  For  he  had  only  begun  to  value  the  girl's 
adoration  now  that  it  was  beginning  to  fail  him.  To-night 
she  had  left  the  house  without  a  word,  and  for  days  she 
had  scarcely  noticed  Ambrose's  presence. 

When  he  saw  the  two  figures  of  Darracott  and  Thyrza 
drawing  near  the  farm,  the  reason  of  it  all  flashed  through 
him;  she  had  gone  to  meet  Darracott,  perhaps  even  to 
visit  him.  In  a  white  heat  of  rage  he  made  as  if  to  pass 
the  two,  but  Thyrza  would  not  have  it. 

"Ambrose,'*  she  called,  ''Mr.  Darracott  wouldn  t  have 
me  come  back  alone;  but  you'll  see  me  safe  home,  won't 
you?" 

"Don't  let  me  spoilsport,"  said  Ambrose.  "He  must 
have  a  great  deal  to  talk  to  you  about  just  now.  Of  that 
I  make  no  doubt,"  he  finished  with  a  sneer. 

Darracott  stood  silent  while  the  other's  jibes  rained 
about  his  ears.  Then  he  turned  on  his  heel,  and  with  a 
brief  "Good  night,"  was  gone. 

Thyrza  stood  watching  his  retreating  figure  for  a  long 
while,  then  she  turned  on  Ambrose. 


no  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I  didn't  think  you  were  mean  before,"  she  said,  walking 
down  the  road  to  Long  Furlong.  The  shrinking  look  on 
Darracott's  face  had  effaced  the  memory  of  the  high  thought 
they  had  shared  together,  and  she  felt  furious  with  Ambrose 
for  the  bitter  shadow  he  had  thrown  over  her  evening. 

"I  should  think,"  said  Ambrose,  as  he  followed,  "that 
you  might  know  better  than  to  be  seen  with  that  fellow. 
Anyhow,  he  ought  to  have  more  decency  than  to  let  you 
speak  to  him." 

"And  why  shouldn't  I  speak  to  him?"  she  asked,  stop- 
ping and  turning  on  him. 

As  she  did  so  he  caught  sight  of  the  box  in  her  hand,  and 
snatching  it  from  her,  opened  it.  When  he  looked  from 
the  hedge-sparrow's  eggs  to  her  eyes,  he  knew  why  they 
had  been  placed  there.  With  an  oath  he  crushed  the 
shells  in  his  hand  and  flung  them  across  the  road.  The 
box  would  have  followed,  had  not  Thyrza  wrested  it  from 
him  in  time. 

Suddenly  in  a  flood  of  memory  there  came  to  Ambrose 
the  thought  that  he  had  in  his  hand  a  weapon  that  would 
destroy  Darracott's  chance  with  Thyrza  for  ever.  He  knew 
the  truth  about  the  Flying  Foam  and  Darracott's  unkept 
watch.  Thyrza  would  never  give  the  man  a  second  thought 
if  she  knew  the  facts. 

Ambrose  walked  on  while  the  battle  raged  in  him.  But, 
after  a  moment,  the  danger  to  Darracott  was  past,  for  he 
could  not  rack  the  poor  wretch  any  more.  It  was  as  im- 
possible to  do  it  as  to  give  the  hunted  hare  to  the  mercy  of 
the  dogs. 

But  Th)Tza  had  read  in  his  face  the  love  she  had  so  often 
longed  to  rouse.  With  a  heart  beating  to  a  suffocating 
measure  she  walked  by  his  side,  while  the  fleecy  clouds 
overhead  raced  faster  than  her  own  pulses  in  the  rhythmic 
swell   of   life   that   was   thrilling   to-night.     To   Ambrose 


The  Law  of  Life  1 1 1 

there  seemed  to  be  danger  somewhere,  till  in  the  mental 
turmoil,  partly  jealousy  and  partly  something  to  which  he 
could  give  no  name,  a  solid  band  began  to  compress  his 
forehead. 

Then  he  heard  a  quick  breath  by  his  side,  that  no  stress 
of  Thyrza's  will  power  could  restrain. 

"Thyrza,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "Th>Tza." 

As  he  stood  still  he  saw  the  girl's  figure  sway. 

"Did  you  go  to  see  Darracott  to-night?'*  he  asked  at 
last. 

"Iss,  Ambrose." 

"To  his  house?" 

"Iss,  Ambrose.  'Twas  that  I  thought  night  and  day 
about  'en  and  his  trouble.  For,  oh,  my  heavens,  he's  the 
only  one  that  cares  for  me  in  all  the  world!" 

She  was  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Thyrza,  come  here." 

Then,  as  he  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  all  the  supports  of 
will  within  seemed  to  give  way.  Yet  falling,  as  it  seemed, 
into  an  abyss,  he  still  held  her  close.  In  a  flash  he  saw 
the  two  sides  of  his  life,  the  struggle  to  be  an  artist,  to  win 
up,  to  make  a  way  that  no  one  else  could  make  for  him — 
and  this,  that  cooed  on  his  heart,  half  a  thing  of  flame  and 
half  of  tenderness.  Shoals  and  shallows  it  might  mean; 
that  he  knew  quite  well,  yet  he  stooped  his  lips  to  hers  and 
I  all  the  world  vanished. 

I  "I've  loved  'ee  all  the  time,"  whispered  Thyrza,  ''but 
I  you  never  give  me  a  sign,  and  then  I  thought  I'd  sent  away 
the  one  man  that  loved  me." 

He  laughed  joyfully,  as  he  whispered — 

"But  now  you  know  there's  another.  Which  of  us  is  the 
one  you  love,  Thyrza?" 

"You  know,"  she  said,  slipping  her  hand  into  his  with  a 
sigh  of  content. 


112  A  Man  of  Genius 


"Dear  little  soul,"  he  answered,  "you've  wound  round  d 
my  heart  every  way.  We're  almost  of  the  same  flesh  and  a 
blood,  for  your  ancestors  and  mine  sleep  together  in  the  | 
dear  old  Devon  earth,  where  you  and  I'll  sleep  together  j 
years  hence,  Thyrza." 

What  happiness  he  could  give  her,  he  reflected,  laugh-  j 
ing  to  himself.  He  only  wished  it  were  possible  to  make  a  j 
whole  armful  of  women  happy,  for  if  ever  a  man  felt  a  j 
benefactor  to  the  entire  race  of  women  that  night,  it  was  I 
Ambrose  Velly.  I 

"You  couldn't  live  without  me,  could  you,  Thyrza?"  he:  ' 
whispered  as  they  said  good  night.  "Say  it  now.  Say,  *]^ 
couldn't  live  without  you,  Ambrose.'"  i  s 

"Oh,  I  couldn't.  That's  true  enough,"  she  answered,  i 
"But  I  was  afraid  somebody  had  told  'ee  of  this."  ; 

She  touched  the  high  neck  of  her  dress.  ; 

"Did  'ee  know  I  was  marked,  Ambrose?"  she  asked.        ( 

He  pulled  her  to  him  and  pressed  his  lips  to  the  ned  i 
that  troubled  her  so.  '  i 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  "I  do  hate  what  takes  'ee  awa)  i 
from  me.  You're  forever  drawing  and  reading.  You  don' ;  li 
love  me  like  I  do  you."  '■  \ 

"Thyrza,"  he  answered  gravely,  "don't  you  know  tha'  I 
if  a  man's  worth  anything  he  must  put  his  work  first?  He'i:  'i 
no  man,  else."  i 

She  understood  this  of  Darracott's  work,  for  with  j!  i 
beloved  woman  waiting  for  him,  she  knew  that  the  mar  j 
worth  loving  would  go  to  his  death,  if  the  sea  called  fo:  i 
sacrifice.  But  Ambrose's  work  was  so  different;  for,  libj  \ 
Mrs.  Velly,  Thyrza  considered  architecture,  apart  from  th:  ' 
mere  question  of  shelter,  as  scarcely  a  dignified  occupatioi  i 
for  a  grown  man,  and  when  she  thought  of  sculpture  sb  > 
always  remembered  the  Italian  men  who  bring  rounr  i 
baskets  of  "images"  for  sale. 


The  Law  of  Life  113 

<  Two  men  that  night  sat  reading  the  first  law  of  life, 
'which  is  written:  "That  ye  bear  much  fruit."  Darracott 
fdreamt  simply  of  the  price  paid  for  other  human  lives, 
where  Ambrose  saw  the  fair  children  of  his  brain  rising, 
stone  above  stone,  into  the  sunlight,  but  they  both  under- 
jstood  more  than  Thyrza.  Yet  she,  too,  had  set  out  on  the 
long  road  which  begins  with  the  eating  of  the  fruit  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge.  And  since  Edenic  days  the  way  to 
the  tree  of  life  runs  past  the  tree  of  knowledge. 
8 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  WANDERING  GLEAM 

THE  following  day  Ambrose  and  Mr.  Westaway  were 
to  visit  that  city  of  many  sieges — Exeter.  It  was 
practically  the  first  time  that  the  country  youth  had  come 
in  contact  with  the  life  of  an  ancient  historic  city,  for 
Ambrose  had  but  little  knowledge  of  the  western  land  that 
was  one  day  to  become  an  inspiration  to  him,  save  of  his 
own  wild  corner.  What  he  saw  in  Exeter  came  to  him, 
then,  the  more  vividly  for  his  dreams  of  what  he  would  see, 
for  racial  love  has  a  trick,  like  other  loves,  of  flourishing 
most  vigorously  on  short  commons. 

Behind  them,  up  the  wide  ridges  of  Stepcote  Hill,  where 
the  guns  of  William  of  Orange  had  been  dragged,  there 
once  stood  the  town  houses  of  the  wool  merchants  by 
whose  wealth  and  enterprise  the  city  lived.  Now  the  road 
was  lined  with  squalid  houses,  filth-encrusted  and  teeming 
with  human  life.  Along  West  Street,  once  the  outlook  tower 
of  the  merchants  as  they  watched  their  ships  bringing  goods 
from  Spain,  from  France  and  the  Lowlands,  hung  torn 
bedding  and  drying  clothes  suspended  by  ropes  from  the 
windows.  "Below  wall,"  as  it  is  still  called,  lay  crowded 
factories,  among  which  Ambrose  noticed  the  firm  of  Bodley, 
stove  manufacturers.  The  name  carried  him  back  to 
Long  Furlong,  to  the  oven  his  mother  so  often  bewailed. 
Beyond  gleamed  the  river,  up  which  the  Danes  came  chant- 
ing their  deadly  "Aoi!  Aoi!"  to  the  assault  of  the  water 
gate. 

114 


The  Wandering  Gleam  i  i  5 

"What  does  it  make  you  feel,  Ambrose?"  asked  Mr. 
Westaway.     "What  do  you  see  here?" 

"That  there's  so  much  at  the  back  of  it  all,  so  much 
forgotten,  besides  what's  remembered." 

"Look  at  the  want  and  sorrow  and  sin,"  said  Mr.  West- 
away. 

"There's  a  sort  of  beauty  in  that,  too.  Oh,  I  can't  say 
it,  but  Danes  and  merchants  and  squalling  brats,  somehow 
it's  life.  That's  what  I  like.  All  of  it's  fme,  even  the 
dirty  clothes,  and  they're  alive  too,  I'll  warn,"  he  said  with 
a  grin. 

"What  does  it  make  you  want  to  do?" 

"To  fight — and  win.  Same  as  they  did  in  the  past.  I 
want  to  build,  so  that  when  I'm  gone,  like  those  others, 
what  I  did'll  be  here." 

"Ay,  you  see  straight.  You  were  born  for  the  lesser 
light." 

"What's  that,  sir?" 

"To  live  for  your  own  purposes.  There's  another,  the 
greater  light,  which  is  to  seek  not  one's  own,  but  to  live  in 
the  life  of  others.  Just  let  me  tell  you  something.  The 
saddest  thing  in  all  the  world  is  to  see  the  better  way  and 
have  no  power  to  tread  it.  Think  of  those  followers  of 
Him  who  had  not  where  to  lay  His  head,  who  live  in  fine 
houses  and  fare  sumptuously — with  this,"  he  pointed  to 
Stepcote  Hill— "close  by." 

There  was  a  silence,  for  Ambrose  knew  that  something 
more  than  his  pupil's  career  was  filling  the  Vicar's  mind. 

"But  you  live  plainly,"  stammered  Ambrose  at  last. 

"But  my  simplicity  would  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe 
the  naked.  All  my  life  I  have  had  to  say,  the  way  that  I 
know  is  too  hard  for  me." 

The  breath  of  a  larger  emotion  reached  Ambrose  for  a 
second,  a  bigger  passion  than  even  the  love  of  beautiful 


1 1 6  A  Man  of  Genius  1 

achievement,  the  greatest  passion  of  ail,  the  longing  to  get 
down  to  the  depths  of  evil,  if  so  be  that  we  may  help,  but 
it  produced  a  distinct  sensation  of  antagonism.  The  sun 
was  shining,  the  water  flashing,  the  blood  flowing  merrily 
in  his  veins;  such  puling  as  this  was  monkish  anachronism. 
He  hated  it,  and  the  hatred  was  expressed  in  a  slight  shrug 
of  the  shoulders.  A  poor  wretch  in  the  gutter  would  move 
Ambrose  to  a  chance-flung  penny,  but  he  would  whistle  the 
more  loudly  after  the  encounter  in  order  to  forget  the 
unpleasantness  of  it. 

Men  like  Ambrose  come  into  the  world  trailing  no  clouds 
of  glory  with  them.  He  had  never  displayed  even  the 
usual  sentimentality  of  youth;  he  never  sang  in  the  village 
choir,  nor  had  he  ever  feared  a  hell,  the  usual  signs  of 
sanctity  in  the  British-born  boy.  Yet  neither  had  he  been 
actively  irreligious;  for,  like  a  substance  enclosed  in  a  water- 
proof membrane,  his  mind  had  simply  remained  impervious 
to  anything  like  spiritual  influence,  and  the  cult  of  humanity, 
of  which  Mr.  Westaway  talked,  was  to  him  merely  curious, 
a  sort  of  moral  squint. 

Such  men  must  learn  of  the  earth;  there  are  no  great 
voices  for  them,  either  from  past  tradition  or  to-day's 
appeal,  there  is  only  the  school  of  the  personal  struggle  of 
the  world  for  them.  Ambrose  had  but  for  ladder  to  the 
stars  a  love  of  seeing  others  happy  and  a  dislike  of  causing 
pain. 

He  had,  in  addition,  his  artistic  birthright  of  sensitive- 
ness to  impressions;  the  sight  of  a  berried  autumn  hedge 
against  the  blue  would  send  his  pulses  leaping  in  much  the 
same  way  as  a  great  heroic  act  would  have  done  in  a  soul 
more  spiritual.  All  the  senses,  lower  as  well  as  higher, 
were  very  strong  in  him,  and  he  was  as  eager  for  the  joys  of 
the  palate  as  for  the  pleasures  of  the  eye.  Apples,  straw- 
berries and  asparagus  not  only  delighted  him,  but  made 


The  Wandering  Gleam  i  17 

him  friendly  towards  other  men  who  revelled  in  these  good 
gifts,  and  Ambrose  preferred  to  share  his  strawberries  with 
another,  because  the  spectacle  of  some  one  else  rollick- 
ing in  earth's  fruits  gave  an  additional  edge  to  his  own 
appetite. 

Then  Mr.  Westaway  began  to  tell  the  story  of  how  the 
Cornish  rebels  of  the  old  faith  besieged  the  city,  and  were 
repulsed  from  the  west  gate  by  the  skill  of  a  miner  within 
the  walls,  who  countermined  above  the  besiegers'  mine  and 
flooded  it  with  water  from  the  weavers'  vats  that  poured 
down  Stepcote  Hill,  much  helped  by  the  miraculous  inter- 
vention of  a  thunderstorm. 

''They  were  fighting  over  the  Prince  of  Peace,"  said  Mr. 
Westaway,  "whose  words  they  read  to  as  little  purpose  as 
we  do  to-day." 

They  went  next  into  a  backyard  near  the  water  gate, 
where  stood  a  tiny  chapel,  with  clothes  hung  out  to  dry  on 
the  very  palings  of  it. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  "I  had  an  old 
uncle  who  was  fond  of  exploring  churches.  He  brought  me 
here  one  night  and  we  went  in.  'Twas  then  a  bare,  white- 
washed room,  with  a  pulpit  draped  in  linen,  a  great  clock 
and  a  long  table.  Round  the  table  sat  three  figures,  a 
gaunt  man,  an  old  lady,  and  a  boy.  They  were  conducting 
evening  service,  that  is,  the  old  man  was  reading  Toplady's 
sermons  aloud.  Now,  who  do  you  think  these  were?" 
asked  Mr.  Westaway. 

"I  don't  know." 

"The  last  remnant  of  the  Calvinist  Independents  of  the 
city,  the  sect  of  Cromwell  and  the  Ironsides." 

"But  they  were  faithful,"  said  Ambrose. 

"It  was  but  to  lucre,  then.  For  each  of  these  Inde- 
pendents was  only  waiting  for  the  other  to  die.  Yes,  that's 
what  they  were  waiting  for,  that  the  survivor  might  profit  by 


1 1 8  A  Man  of  Genius 

the  endowment  of  the  sect.  That's  how  the  burning,  fiery 
zeal  of  the  Ironsides  ended  in  this  ever  faithful  city.  But 
the  survivor  was  trapped,  after  all;  for  they  found  the 
money  couldn't  be  alienated  from  a  sect,  and  it  went  to  the 
Congregationalists,  who  enjoy  it  now." 

A  few  minutes  later  Ambrose  pushed  open  the  swing 
door  and  entered  the  Cathedral.  It  was  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  a  great  mediaeval  building,  save  in  prints  and 
section  drawings,  and  the  first  idea  that  struck  him  was  the 
beauty  that  lies  in  cast  shadows;  the  second,  a  memory  of 
old  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  theory  that  buildings  were  first 
circular,  because  ''birds  doe  build  their  nests  spherically." 
For  this  was  a  forest  in  stone,  thought  Ambrose,  catching 
another  glimpse  of  what  he  had  noted  in  the  village  church, 
the  enshrining  of  nature  forms  in  man's  handicraft,  the 
wave-ripples  of  arch-mouldings,  the  leaves  of  crockets,  the 
human  heads  of  corbels,  the  stone  buttresses,  cliff-like,  of 
church  towers.  As  he  watched  the  faint  beams  of  sunlight 
that  stole  through  the  mist  between  the  fan-vaulting  of  the 
roof,  like  sun-rays  falling  on  forest  arches,  a  great  passion 
of  comprehension  flushed  all  the  boy's  veins,  till  his  limbs 
trembled  with  a  fever  that  was  almost  physical.  For  here 
was  not  a  copy  of  the  earth's  beauty,  but  a  sublimated 
essence  of  it,  a  suggestion  of  the  characteristic  loveliness  of 
every  nature  form  to  be  found  in  the  temperate  zone. 

Yet  after  a  time  he  saw  vaguely  that  this  was  not  all,  for 
here  in  the  dimness  was  a  spirit  not  present  in  cliff  forms  or 
forest  arches.  What  was  it  ?  he  asked  himself.  What  was 
it  that  this  possessed,  that  those  lacked?  For  a  moment 
he  thought  it  must  be  strength,  remembering  the  story  of 
Sir  Christopher  Wren,  who,  when  all  the  steeples  of  London 
were  damaged  by  a  hurricane  said  quietly:  "Not  St. 
Dunstan's,  I  am  sure,"  so  confident  was  he  in  the  four- 
square strength  of  his  building's  walls.     "No,"  said  Am- 


The  Wandering  Gleam  i  i  9 

brose  to  himself,  **it  could  not  be  strength,  for  the  cliff 
bastions  are  the  very  types  of  strength." 

The  next  moment  he  had  found  the  answer,  a  strange 
answer  to  come  to  such  a  lad.  For  here  he  was  face  to 
face  with  the  unseen  that  is  enshrined  in  all  great  work,  the 
unseen  beauty  that  lies  behind  the  seen.  Every  splendid 
thing  that  man  creates  is  an  altar  to  the  Unknown  Loveli- 
ness, of  which  he  catches  but  flying  glimpses  now  and  then, 
here  and  there,  in  a  woman's  face,  in  the  features  of  a 
landscape,  in  a  Pisgah  vision  of  thought.  For  every 
picture,  every  statue,  every  building,  is  a  confession  of 
faith,  not  in  the  maker's  own  powers,  but  in  that  ideal 
beauty  which  is  still  unexpressed,  when  the  picture  is 
painted,  or  the  building  raised. 

So  came  the  first  gleam  of  the  spirit  to  Ambrose,  born 
of  joy  and  beauty,  yet  never  to  reach  its  clear  shining, 
except  with  the  help  of  pain.  For  like  the  earth  itself  and 
the  race  of  men,  the  life  of  the  spirit  is  born  of  *' shudder- 
ing, also,  and  tears." 

Then  a  boy's  voice  soared  up  and  up,  beyond  the  vault- 
ing of  the  roof,  beyond  the  city  mist,  beyond  the  stars,  out 
into  the  vastness  of  the  universe;  another  gate  of  joy  was 
opened  for  Ambrose,  the  magic  gate  of  sound  that  rides 
the  winds  of  passion,  as  well  as  the  clear  cold  air  of  holi- 
ness. For  this  music,  unlike  the  notes  of  his  own  fiddle, 
expressed,  not  the  merry  gleam  of  sunshine,  not  ''the  wind 
among  the  barley,"  but  the  vastness  of  the  world  spaces 
and  of  man's  dreams  of  his  future.  "It  doth  not  yet 
appear  what  we  shall  be,"  said  the  boy's  voice,  pealing  up- 
wards into  the  unknown. 

Gate  after  gate  of  the  spirit  was  opening  now,  as  Ambrose 
lost  himself  in  thought,  the  greatest  thought  of  the  world, 
the  perception  of  the  vastness  of  the  universe  that  we 
inhabit,  vast  both  within  and  without.     It  is  the  most  awful 


I  20  A  Man  of  Genius 

event,  perhaps,  in  the  mind's  history,  the  coming  of  this 
consciousness,  which  makes  a  man,  for  a  moment,  as  a  god. 
This  place  where  he  sat  seemed  to  Ambrose  a  temple  built 
in  stone  for  the  service  of  the  infinite;  it  explained  the 
awe  of  the  great  rock  shapes,  the  sport  of  sea  and  wind, 
that  had  been  the  companions  of  his  boyhood.  Ambrose 
began  to  fancy  that  among  the  angel  hosts,  of  whom  the 
sermon  spoke,  there  must  be  the  creator  of  this  building. 

''What  good  is  like  to  this,"  thought  he,  ''to  build  like 
this?"  "Some  day,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  as  he 
stepped  out  into  the  street,  so  misty  after  his  own  windy 
land  of  marsh  and  moor  and  sea.  It  was  the  gallant 
"some  day"  that  makes  the  glory  of  these  great  hours  of 
youth,  for  he  had  seen  the  wandering  gleam  that  opens  a 
way  to  the  vistas  of  the  spiritual  world. 

An  hour  later  Mr.  Westaway  and  Ambrose  stood  on  the 
hill  above  the  town,  looking  down  on  the  beautiful  place 
that  sleeps  in  the  circle  of  her  hills,  with  the  mist  of  her 
chimneys  lying  over  roofs  and  towers.  Far  in  the  distance 
flashed  a  silver  streak  of  sea;  in  the  west  flamed  the  sun- 
set, in  the  east  a  row  of  elms  was  sharply  outlined  by  the 
intense  blue  of  the  sky. 

"The  secret  of  life  as  I  have  learnt  it  is  this,  Ambrose," 
said  Mr.  Westaway,  "sell  all  that  thou  hast  and — not  neces- 
sarily give  it  to  the  poor,  but  give  it  to  the  one  thing  in  the 
world  that  you  want.  If  it  be  painting,  paint;  if  heaping 
up  wealth,  heap;  if  helping  the  helpless,  help.  But  re- 
member that  it  wants  a  strong  will.  For  the  roadway  of 
life  is  strewn  with  the  cast-off  theories  of  the  young.  You 
know  a  man  gets  up  on  Sunday  morning  with  a  great  idea 
that  is  to  change  all  his  ways;  but  by  twelve  o'clock  on 
Monday  he  is  doing  very  much  like  other  people." 

"I  won't  forget,"  said  Ambrose,  who  just  then  saw  a  new 
earth,  if  not  a  new  heaven.     But  at  Long  Furlong  that  very 


The  Wandering  Gleam  121 

evening  the  old  earth  was  awaiting  him;  for  when  we  wonder 
at  the  spiritual  marvels  of  Gothic  architecture,  we  should 
bear  in  mind  the  monkish  life  of  its  designers,  if  not  of 
its  craftsmen,  who  at  any  rate  contrived  in  gargoyle  and 
crocket  to  get  in  a  vast  deal  of  the  old  earth's  mockery  of 
the  Sublime  and  Beautiful.  Dr.  Dayman,  indeed,  declared 
a  hundred  times  that  he  could  feel  twitching  at  his  fmger- 
tips  the  inspiration  of  a  mediaeval  humourist. 

It  was  a  pitch-dark  night  when  Ambrose  reached  home. 
After  stabling  his  horse  he  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  yard 
before  going  into  the  house.  It  was  so  still  that  not  a  leaf 
stirred,  not  a  whisper  came  from  the  sea;  but  suddenly 
circles  of  yellow  light  flickered  along  the  lichened  garden 
wall,  where  the  fuchsia  bush  hung  over  the  heppen  stock. 
As  he  craned  forward  round  the  gateway  of  the  yard  he 
heard  the  tapping  of  light  heels  and  saw  that  the  light  fell 
from  a  lanthorn  that  Thyrza  was  carrying.  When  she  had 
turned  the  corner  into  the  road,  he  raced  after  her,  the 
yellow  circles  dancing  in  front  of  him  like  a  will  o'  the 
wisp.  The  grass  and  sand  of  the  gutter  where  he  took  care 
to  walk  were  friendly,  and  gave  no  hint  that  she  was  being 
followed. 

To  Thyrza  Braund  the  marks  of  the  king's-evil  on  her 
neck  were  a  real  sorrow,  not,  as  they  would  have  been  to  a 
practical  woman,  a  thing  to  necessitate  high  neck-bands,  or, 
to  a  clever  one,  a  thing  to  forget.  To  women  of  her  type 
the  daintiest  bodily  purity  and  perfection  must  be  the 
foundation  of  well-being;  for  the  world  where  men  fight  to 
win  what  satisfies  the  mind  was  unknown,  save  where  the 
simplest  issues  of  duty  were  concerned.  It  was  not  the 
mere  ugliness  of  the  scars  that  distressed  her,  but  their 
deep-rooted  nature;  she  felt  like  a  cat  who,  starting  with 
the  disposition  of  a  jet-black  one,  has  yet  by  some  ancestral 
aberration,  acquired  a  brownish  tinge.     In  her  intercourse 


122  A  Man  of  Genius 

with  Darracott  she  was  the  inspirer,  she  met  him  on  the 
highest  levels  of  his  character;  but  with  Ambrose,  so  richly 
endowed  beside  her  own  poor  nature,  she  felt  a  sense  of 
strain.  So  much  in  him  was  a  sealed  book  to  Thyrza,  who 
regularly  fell  asleep  over  a  bound  volume  of  the  Quiver 
every  Sunday  afternoon,  that,  in  her  love,  she  felt  like  a 
priest  who  seeks  the  most  perfect  creature  as  an  offering  to 
his  god,  for  the  body  and  heart  that  gave  delight  to  Ambrose 
must  have  the  spotlessness  of  the  immaculate. 

Yet  as  she  walked  on  to-night,  the  suffocating  beats  of 
her  heart  almost  choked  her,  and  even  while  she  drew  near 
the  place  of  her  trial,  bent  persistently  on  her  task,  she  was 
praying  that  the  gods  would  avert  the  dreadful  moment. 
For  the  wormy  terrors  of  physical  death,  the  charnel  house 
horror,  could  be  conquered  by  nothing  save  by  the  power  of 
devotion;  there  was  no  spiritual  sense  to  lighten  the  horror 
of  that  grim  darkness. 

At  last,  as  the  wider  roads  opened  in  front  of  them, 
Ambrose  began  to  see  whither  she  was  bound,  for  over  the 
tops  of  the  hedges  cavernous  spaces  of  opal  light  yawned  to 
left  and  right,  the  meeting  place  of  sea  and  sky.  At  first  he 
had  imagined  himself  to  be  playing  the  Rabelaisian  part  of 
eavesdropper  at  an  assignation,  but  it  almost  seemed  that 
the  scene  was  set  for  a  tragedy,  since  it  was  for  Blegberry 
that  they  were  bound,  a  spot  inevitably  tragic  just  now, 
because,  in  the  absence  of  a  mortuary,  the  sailor's  body  lay 
here,  awaiting  interment  in  the  parish  churchyard. 

Thyrza  turned  into  the  quadrangle  of  farm  buildings 
which  stands  apart  from  the  house.  The  dog  kennelled  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road  made  no  sound,  for  the  straw  of 
the  courtyard  muffled  their  footsteps. 

Strange  tremors,  like  the  whirring  of  a  loom,  passed 
from  Thyrza  to  Ambrose,  as  he  watched  her  in  the  crepus- 
cular light  from  the  sea,  while  she  struggled  to  open  the 


The  Wandering  Gleam  123 

door  of  the  barn,  lifting  firm  hands  to  its  heavy  iron  ring. 
It  was  locked,  and  for  a  second  she  stood  with  hands  pressed 
to  her  face.  Then,  lifting  her  lanthorn  with  a  swing  of 
decision,  she  ran  up  the  flight  of  outside  steps  that  led  to 
the  hay  tallat  over  the  barn. 

At  last  Ambrose  dared  to  steal  up  the  steps  in  his  turn. 
In  the  hay-scented  stillness  within,  a  shaft  of  light  ran  up 
towards  the  shadowy  roof  in  a  long  column  of  tawny 
yellow;  it  came  through  an  opening  in  the  floor,  from 
Thyrza's  lanthorn.  Lying  face  downwards  with  his  head 
peering  into  the  barn  below,  he  could  see  a  ladder  down 
which  she  must  have  climbed.  In  the  rafters  overhead  a 
bat  wheeled  in  wide  circles,  beating  itself  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  shaft  of  light  that  pierced  the  dimness.  Startled 
pigeons  fluttered  sleepily,  as  the  rays  pierced  to  their 
roosting-places,  the  beams  that  supported  the  tallat  floor. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  barn,  in  the  light  that  radiated  like 
wheel-spokes  in  the  darkness,  knelt  Thyrza  by  the  side  of 
a  trestle  table  that  stood  out,  bare  and  startling,  in  the 
centre  of  a  cleared  space. 

The  light  shone  faintly  on  her  features,  showing  up  the 
mingled  dread  and  desire  that  fought  on  them;  the  dread 
was  evident,  but  the  desire  only  lay  latent  for  the  moment. 
Then  Ambrose  saw  her  moisten  the  dry  lips  of  great  passion, 
as  she  tried  with  trembling  fingers  to  unhook  the  fastenings 
of  her  cloak  and  the  stud  at  the  neck  of  her  blouse.  She 
was  evidently  afraid  to  move  freely,  lest  something  should 
awake. 

It  was  a  needless  fear,  thought  Ambrose,  as  he  traced  the 
outline  that  lay  below  the  coarse  sheet,  the  long  shape,  the 
rise  of  the  trunk,  the  feet  resting  upwards,  toes  in  air,  the 
crossed  hands  on  the  breast. 

At  the  hands  Thyrza's  eyes  paused;  it  was  with  them 
that  she  was  concerned.     Furtively,  and  with  jerks  that 


1 24  A  Man  of  Genius 

marked  successive  efforts  of  the  will,  she  slipped  her  hand 
beneath  the  sheet,  slowly  drawing  out  the  dead  man's  hand, 
without  disturbing  anything  else.  Then,  kneeling  suddenly, 
with  sobbing  breaths  that  shook  her  whole  body,  she  placed 
the  dead  hand  on  her  neck,  pressing  it  close  against  the  scars. 

It  had  large,  coarse  fingers,  whose  blackened  nails  lent  to 
it  something  of  the  appearance  of  a  claw,  and  against  it 
the  girl's  skin  shone  like  semi-transparent  porcelain.  As 
the  cold  struck  downwards,  from  the  skin  to  the  blood 
beneath,  the  dread  passed  from  her  face,  leaving  only 
traces  of  past  emotion,  like  wavemarks  in  sand,  and  tiny 
points  of  perspiration  on  forehead  and  nose.  She  pressed 
the  hand  closer  and  closer,  with  the  movement  of  one 
getting  life  from  another;  there  was  a  suggestion  of  cruelty 
in  the  action,  like  the  savage  sucking  of  a  starving  child. 

At  the  sight  the  blood  leapt  torrent-like  through  Ambrose 
Velly's  veins  and,  as  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  the  noise  he 
made  startled  the  girl.  He  heard  her  shudder  and  start 
away  from  the  table,  and  the  next  moment  he  leapt  down 
the  ladder,  crying — 

"Thyrza,  Thyrza,  it's  only  m.e,  only  Ambrose.  Darling, 
darling,  don't  be  frightened!" 

^'Oh,  my  good  Lord!"  she  sobbed  as  he  caught  her. 
The  long  shivers  that  shook  her  communicated  themselves 
to  him,  and  they  clung  together  in  wavering  heart-beats. 

''Did  'ee  do  it  for  me,  for  me?"  stammered  Ambrose. 
"It's  the  dead  hand  you  came  for.  Oh,  you  dear,  you 
dear!" 

He  was  pressing  rough  young  lips  to  her  face,  her  hands, 
in  a  transport  of  love  and  gratified  vanity. 

"Did  you  do  it  for  me,  my  darling;  did  you  risk  the 
dread  and  steal  through  the  darkness  for  me?  Say  it  was 
for  me?"  he  whispered. 

"  Iss,  lad;  I  couldn't  bide  blemished  when  you  loved  me." 


The  Wandering  Gleam  i  25 

"Oh,  Th)Tza,  I'm  not  worth  the  terror  you've  hcen  in. 
No  man  is,  but  I  will  be  good  to  'ee  always,  dear." 

He  was  ashamed  of  the  light  gaiety  with  which  he  had 
taken  her  love,  rating  it  as  an  extra  pleasure,  quite  separate 
from  the  main  current  of  his  interests. 

But  as  he  would  have  kissed  her  again,  she  held  him 
away. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  "not  now.  I've  got  the  chill  of 
the  dead  hand  in  me.     It  must  work  till  the  marks  go." 

"Do  you  really  believe  they'll  go?"  he  laughed.  "Oh, 
Thyrza,  you're  a  sad  goose." 

"Oh,  I  donno,  I  donno.  But  they  say  'tis  certain  sure 
your  chillern  won't  be  marked  anyway." 

In  the  dead  silence  they  heard  their  hearts  beat,  and  the 
sleepy  coo-coo  of  a  pigeon  above  them  sounded  like  an 
echo  from  the  garden  of  sleep.  In  a  moment,  however, 
Thyrza  went  towards  the  trestle  table. 

"No,"  she  said,  full  of  the  pity  of  a  natural  woman 
towards  the  dead  and  the  suffering,  "I've  took  from  him. 
You  mustn't  love  me  here,  for  that's  an  affront  to  the  dead. 
He  lies  here  to-day,  but  he'll  be  in  clay  to-morrow,  with 
folks'  feet  treading  him  down;  but  you  and  I  have  got  all 
the  days  to  come." 

Taking  the  hand  that  hung  stiff,  yet  lax,  from  under  the 
sheet,  she  slipped  it  back  into  its  former  position.  Then 
she  pulled  from  the  breast  of  her  blouse  a  little  square  of 
white  linen.  "See,"  she  said,  putting  it  into  Ambrose's 
hands,  "I  wanted  him  to  take  something  with  'en  from  me. 
They'm  hard  to  poor  strangers,  folks  be;  yet,  maybe,  he's 
got  them  that  love  'en  somewhere.  I'm  going  to  tie  that 
round  his  poor  bruised  head." 

As  Ambrose  watched  her,  a  sense  of  her  lovingkindness 
stole  over  him.  He  remembered  the  tenderness  with 
which  she  would  put  down  soaked  bread  for  the  chicken, 


126  A  Man  of  Genius 

or  would  sit  with  an  ailing  young  animal  in  her  lap,  letting 
it  suck  her  kindly,  warm  hands.  He  began  to  feel  ashamed 
of  his  own  crude  hunger  for  self-gratification.  For  he  knew 
instinctively  that  to  Thyrza  the  love  which  had  arisen 
between  them  was  guided  by  forces  that  are  themselves 
of  the  noblest,  desires  which  demand  their  satisfaction  as 
the  holiest  right  of  all.  While  life  called  in  her,  he  knew 
that  to  him  she  was  but  a  passing  joy.  Then  he  dismissed 
the  thought,  for  was  this  not,  after  all,  but  man  and  woman  ? 

Taking  the  fine  linen  from  his  hand,  she  turned  back 
the  sheet  and  did  her  work,  with  little  sobbing  breaths  and 
trembling  fingers,  that  were  paid  as  a  debt  to  the  love  and 
pity  of  the  human  lot. 

"Why  do  you  bother  so  about  your  marks?"  asked  Am- 
brose, as  they  walked  down  the  road  from  Blegberry  to 
Long  Furlong. 

"I  want  to  be  clean,  same  as  others,"  said  Th)T:za 
shortly.  He  was  colder,  she  fancied,  and  walked  purposely 
farther  apart  from  her. 

"Why,  when  maids  strip  for  a  swim,  they  point  to  me," 
she  continued.  "Oh,  Ambrose,  'tis  the  sole  speck  upon 
me,  dear  heart.  I  couldn't  bear  to  cheat  'ee,  if  'twas  ever 
so  little.     I'm  all  fair  else." 

The  accents  of  self-humiliation,  of  devotion,  struck  out 
all  there  was  of  good  in  Ambrose's  love  for  her. 

"Thyrza,  whatever  happens,  I  will  always  be  good  to 
you.  Always,  dear.  For  I  love  it  all,  every  bit  of  your 
dear  body  and  your  dear  soul  and  your  dear  heart." 

"I  wish  this  night  could  last  forever,"  she  said,  as,  both 
young  hearts  afire  with  the  perfect  trust  in  each  other 
that  sees  no  future  that  is  unlike  the  present,  they  crept 
into  the  garden.  Here  they  found  the  house-door  open, 
and  just  outside  it,  a  burnt-down  candle  in  a  pewter  candle- 
stick that  stood  in  a  flower-bed. 


The  Wandering  Gleam  i  27 

"That's  father!"  exclaimed  Ambrose  bitterly. 

As  they  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  dark  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs,  Thyrza  whispered — 

"Yes;  he's  back." 

Her  loving  eyes  were  full  of  pity,  as  they  listened  to  the 
dull,  heavy  sounds  from  overhead. 

All  the  past  flashed  over  Ambrose;  the  nights  he  had 
waited  as  a  child,  trembling  in  his  bed,  in  fear  of  the  waver- 
ing footsteps;  the  unavailing  prayers  he  had  offered  to  a 
deaf  heaven  that  father  might  come  home  soon,  so  that 
they  might  all  go  to  sleep  quietly. 

A  fire  of  passionate  self-pity  surged  up  in  his  heart. 
Had  he  not  himself  his  father's  inability  to  resist  the  cravings 
of  a  moment's  pleasure?  This  was  his  inheritance,  for 
he  was  a  Velly,  of  a  dying  stock.  He  sank  down  despond- 
ently on  the  passage  chair,  while  Thyrza  watched  him, 
knowing,  for  the  love  that  was  in  her,  something  of  his 
thoughts,  though  she  simply  could  not  follow  them  when 
they  concerned  themselves  with  her.  For  to  her  simple 
nature  all  the  glory  of  the  world  was  expressed  in  her  call 
to  him,  in  his  returning  impulse. 

At  length,  from  the  embers  of  the  kitchen  hearth,  came 
two  cheery  chirps  that  echoed  through  the  house. 

"Oh,  the  dear,"  cried  Thyrza  in  a  joyful  whisper,  ''the 
dear  of  'en!  He's  come  back,  that's  the  cricket,  Ambrose, 
that's  been  quiet  for  weeks." 

The  cricket  had  given  her  courage,  it  seemed,  for  sud- 
denly kneeling  on  the  floor,  she  slipped  into  his  arms,  and 
holding  his  hands  to  her  breast,  whispered,  "It'll  be  all 
right,  for  I — love  you,  and  you  love  me." 

To  the  artist,  life  is  infinitely  vivid  in  all  its  aspects; 
round  him  are  things  that  provoke  curiosity,  that  half 
reveal  their  secret  and  then  withdraw;  these  he  would  fain 
know.     There  are  also  things  that  call  for  direction,  for 


128  A  Man  of  Genius 

handling;  lie  would  fain  make,  create,  work.  Above  all, 
there  are  things  that  thrill  the  nerves  into  a  quivering 
agony  of  bliss;  he  must  love.  Thus  in  youth  the  thinker, 
the  creator,  the  lover  in  him  war  for  the  mastery. 

Of  this  Thyrza,  asleep  in  a  blissful  ball,  with  her  fingers 
on  the  scarred  neck,  knew  nothing,  though  to  Ambrose, 
sitting  softly  playing  with  muted  strings,  the  world  was 
infinitely  varied,  for  in  its  circle  were  contained  the  con- 
ception of  the  world's  pain  that  he  had  learnt  of  Mr.  West- 
away,  the  love  of  woman  that  Thyrza  had  taught  him,  and, 
strangest  of  all,  the  wandering  gleam  that  dimly  lights  the 
darkness  of  the  spiritual  world. 


CHAPTER   VIU 
THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  HILLS 

SUDDENLY  Ambrose  noticed  that  the  room  where  he 
sat  was  full  of  smoke,  and  that  flakes  of  soot  were 
falling  in  all  directions.  Remembering  in  a  flash  of  sick 
dread  that  their  insurance  against  fire  had  been  allowed  to 
lapse,  he  opened  the  door  into  the  yard,  thus  admitting 
fresh  volumes  of  smoke  into  the  house.  From  the  door  of 
the  stable  a  long  tongue  of  fire  leapt  in  the  current  of  wind 
that  was  fanning  the  smother  of  smoke  into  a  trail  of 
destruction.  There  were  two  valuable  horses  in  the  stable, 
and,  as  Ambrose  ran  across  the  yard,  he  knew  that  the  loss 
of  them  would  mean  ruin;  so  it  had  come,  the  terror  that 
Airs.  \'elly  had  dreaded  for  thirty  years. 

When  he  pushed  against  the  door  he  found  there  was 
some  obstruction  in  the  way.  As  he  hastily  stooped,  with 
his  left  arm  pressed  across  his  face  to  keep  the  smoke  from 
his  eyes,  he  came  upon  the  body  of  a  man  stretched  on  the 
floor.  The  terrified  snorts  of  the  horses  reached  him 
through  the  smoke,  as  he  pulled  his  father  out  of  the  reek- 
ing place.  In  the  next  second  he  had  rushed  back,  un- 
fastened the  terrified  creaturss,  and  driven  them  out  into 
the  yard,  where  they  stampeded  wildly  for  the  open  gate- 
way, and  awoke  Caleb  by  the  thundering  of  their  hoofs  as 
they  passed  his  cottage. 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Velly  had  appeared,  wrapped  in  an  old 
grey  dressing-gown.  She  was  calm  enough  to  give  her 
husband  a  little  flick  with  her  foot  as  she  passed  him  an 
9  129 


130  A  Man  of  Genius 

her  way  to  the  pump,  where  Ambrose  was  furiously  at 
work. 

"Here,  I  can  do  that,"  she  said,  pushing  him  away  from 
the  pump-handle  and  beginning  to  work  it  with  her  gaunt, 
sinewy  arms.  Even  in  that  moment  of  stress,  Ambrose 
had  time  to  feel  a  pang  of  disgust  at  the  sight  of  his  mother 
toiling  like  a  man.  Caleb  arrived  at  last,  and  the  three 
began  to  work  furiously  to  save  the  interior  fittings  of 
the  stable,  the  stalls  and  loose-box.  It  was  vain,  however; 
for  the  place  was  littered  with  loose  straw  that  bore  the 
flames  to  every  part,  and  by  the  time  the  fire  was  extin- 
guished the  whole  building  was  gutted,  with  nothing  but  the 
blackened  walls  and  roof  to  form  a  chasm  of  ugly  ruin. 
Then  Caleb  and  Ambrose  carried  James  Velly  upstairs, 
and  when  they  came  down  they  found  that  Mrs.  Velly  was 
setting  to  work  to  boil  the  kettle  for  tea. 

*'Thank  'ee,  missus,  thank  'ee,"  said  Caleb;  "'tis  cruel 
hard,  but  the  hosses'll  be  back  by  morn.  They'll  not 
stray  far." 

*'It's  all  of  a  piece,  Vinnicombe,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  quietly. 
"It's  a  losing  game,  but  that  I've  always  known." 

There  was  a  smear  of  smut  across  her  face,  and  down  it  a 
white  channel  that  had  been  traced  by  smarting  tears. 

** Mother,"  asked  Ambrose,  when  Caleb  had  gone, 
"where  in  the  world  is  Thyrza  all  this  time?" 

"I  turned  the  key  in  her  door  when  I  came  down. 
There's  no  call  to  let  all  the  world  see  our  shame." 

"How's  it  all  ever  going  to  end?"  said  Ambrose,  as  they 
crouched  over  the  fire,  in  the  cold  shivers  that  come  when 
strained  nerves  relax.  But  Mrs.  Velly's  courage  never 
failed  her  long. 

"All  well,  if  so  be  you're  strong,  Ambrose." 

"How  can  I  be,  with  day  by  day  that  spectacle  in  front 
of  my  eyes?    And  his  blood  in  my  veins,  too." 


The  Strength  of  the  Hills  131 

"There's  mine,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  quietly.  "Afore 
you  come,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  some  soul  on  t'other  side 
was  asking  me  to  give  'en  life.  And  then,  when  your 
little  hand  pressed  my  breast,  it  somehow  seemed  my  man 
himself  that  took  his  life  from  me.  And  now,  though  he's 
dead  to  everything  but  his  degradation,  yet  he's  alive  in 
you." 

"Mother,  don't  you  see  that  it's  just  that  fact  that  I 
hate,  fear — I  don't  know  which.  I  sit  here  night  after 
night  waiting  for  his  footsteps,  with  no  power  of  work  in 
me. 

He  pointed  to  the  torn  canvas,  rent  and  slit  with  a  knife 
that  was  lying  on  the  settle. 

"That's  how  it  always  ends,"  he  said.  "To-night,  after 
my  day  away,  I  was  in  better  spirits, — and  then  comes  this." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Lad,  you  must  win  up  where  your  father  couldn't. 
He'd  got  brains,  so  have  you.  He  hadn't  got  my  spirit, 
but  you  have.  Only  believe  in  it,  and  you'll  find  the 
strength." 

"I  know  what  you  mean.  I  always  said  to  myself  that 
father  should  be  the  last  weak  man  in  the  line." 

"Ay,  you  said  it,  you  said  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Velly  in  a  sort 
of  triumph;  "and  you  got  it  from  me,  for  'twas  in  my  heart 
all  the  time  before  you  come.  Work,  struggle,  wait.  Your 
chance  must  come  at  last." 

Pacing  up  and  down  the  room,  he  wondered  whether 
Mrs.  Velly  had  thought  of  the  new  trouble  that  faced  them. 

"The  stables  will  have  to  be  refitted,"  he  said  abruptly. 
"Where's  the  money  to  come  from?" 

"You  must  borrow  it  of  Mr.  Westaway,"  she  answered 
instantly.  She  had,  indeed,  settled  this  matter  in  her  mind 
long  before  the  fire  was  even  extinguished. 

"I  can't  ask  that.     How  could  it  ever  be  paid  back?" 


132  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I'm  going  to  send  Thyrza  away,  and  the  money  saved 
through  that  will  pay  Mr.  Westaway — interest  and  principal 
too." 

"How  can  you  possibly  do  without  Thyrza?" 

"When  ruin's  staring  her  in  the  face  a  woman  doesn't  go 
about  finicking  with  her  little  finger  cocked  up,"  snapped 
Mrs.  Velly.  "Besides,  she  ought  to  go  anyway.  She's 
getting  too  fond  of  you." 

Should  he  tell  his  mother  of  the  relationship  between 
himself  and  Thyrza,  he  wondered.  But,  by  some  process 
of  telepathy,  Mrs.  Velly  took  the  answer  out  of  his  mouth. 

"She's  soft,"  she  said  brutally.  "She'd  hang  about  'ee 
and  worship  the  very  ground  you  trod  on.  But  she  wouldn't 
make  a  man  of  you.  She'd  only  choke  her  husband  with 
chillern  and  kisses.     That's  her  sort." 

"And  isn't  that  a  true  kind  of  wife?" 

"Oh,  she'd  be  true  enough.  She'd  never  forget.  She'd 
want  the  man  to  be  the  same  lovesick  husband  he  was  in 
the  first  month." 

"And  I  shouldn't  be,  you  think?" 

"A  man  can't  be,  that's  got  his  work  to  do.  You  want 
a  woman  that  can  open  the  windows  of  life  for  'ee.  That 
can  look  into  the  distance,  while  you'm  groping  over  the 
next  step.  The  man  to  walk,  the  woman  to  look  far 
ahead  for  'en.  That's  the  way  it  should  be.  Not  to  care 
for  naught  but  his  kisses  and  his  chillern  on  her  breast." 

"He  wants  both  sorts,  maybe." 

"He  may  so,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  grimly;  "but  till  we're 
all  Turks  he  won't  get  'em.     Not  easy,  that  is,  nor  open." 

So  Ambrose,  naturally  reluctant  to  bring  fresh  trouble 
on  his  mother,  left  Thyrza  in  the  dark  corner  of  his  life, 
for  the  time,  at  any  rate. 

"I  believe,"  said  Ambrose,  "that  we  ought  to  give  up 
the  farm.     I  could  earn,  if  I  were  to  get  away." 


I 


The  Strength  of  the  Hills  133 

Mrs.  Velly  held  out  her  work-worn  hand 

'Tm  going  on/'  she  said  sternly,  "as  long  as  I've  got 
hands  to  work  with.  For  to  give  in  now,  with  the  rent  un- 
paid, is  bankruptcy.  That  I'll  never  do,  never.  It's  my 
very  life  to  keep  up  the  struggle." 

To  Mrs.  Velly  there  was,  in  truth,  but  one  reliable  way 
of  making  money,  and  that  was  out  of  the  earth. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Velly  sent  for  Ambrose  to  come 
to  his  room. 

''Read  that,"  he  said,  flinging  on  the  counterpane  a 
letter  that  his  trembling  hand  had  at  last  managed  to 
abstract  from  a  worn  pocket-book  that  was  more  familiar 
with  corn  samples  than  papers.  As  Ambrose  read  it  his 
face  darkened,  for  it  was  a  notice  to  quit  the  farm  on 
account  of  seven  years'  arrears  in  rent,  coupled  with  the 
offer  of  a  small  cottage  at  a  nominal  rental  *'on  account  of 
the  past  connection  of  the  Velly  family  with  the  estate." 

''I've  made  a  mull  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Velly,  as  though 
appealing  for  his  son's  pity.  He  had  been  born  at  Long 
Furlong,  like  his  father  before  him,  and  he  knew  every  inch 
of  it,  "like  the  back  of  his  hand,"  as  he  was  wont  to  boast. 
Even  now  he  could  still  remember  a  time  when  every 
morning  had  brought  a  fresh  spring  of  power  to  grapple 
with  work,  and  every  evening  the  comfort  of  work  done. 

"Your  mother  mustn't  know,"  said  Mr.  Velly.  "I'll  not 
have  that.     She  doesn't  know  how  bad  it  is." 

"But,"  protested  Ambrose,  "she  must  know  sooner  or 
later.     What's  the  good  of  putting  off  the  evil  day?" 

"It'll  be  pretty  nigh  her  death-blow,"  said  Mr.  Velly. 
"But  it'll  be  good  for  you  when  the  time  comes.  You 
ought  to  ha'  gone  long  ago.  But  nobody  asked  me.  I'm 
of  no  account  in  my  own  house." 

To  Mr.  Velly  the  boy's  return  from  his  course  of  training 
had  been  a  far  greater  blow  than  to  Mrs.  Velly,  for  in 


134  A.  Man  of  Genius 

mental  faculty  Ambrose  and  his  father  were  far  more  on  the 
same  level.  In  his  boy,  Mr.  Velly  saw  himself  over  again, 
and  understood  the  pitfalls  that  life  had  ready,  in  a  way 
that  was  impossible  to  Mrs.  Velly's  stronger  will. 

''Pin-pricks,"  he  maundered  on,  while  Ambrose  watched 
him,  "pin-pricks,  it  was  they  that  brought  me  here.  All 
the  slights,  the  raised  eyebrows,  the  looks  from  everybody, 
from  your  mother  most  of  all;  for  they  all  meant  that  folks 
looked  for  nothing  but  what  was  bad  in  me.  First-long,  I 
got  drunk  a  time  or  two,  and  after  that  they  always  looked 
for  it  again.  I  could  see  it.  When  I  rapped  out  something 
wild,  they'd  say,  'Ay,  there's  his  father  coming  out,  or  his 
grandfather  mayhap.  It's  been  a  regular  game  of  uppy- 
down-daps  with  me,  putting  up  a  cockshy  and  flinging 
stones  at  it." 

With  a  sickening  sense  that  these  were  his  own  fears 
repeated  in  a  stronger  form,  Ambrose  turned  away  and  went 
downstairs. 

In  the  keen  atmosphere  of  a  town,  and  above  all,  free 
from  the  malaria  of  imaginative  heredity,  Mr.  Velly  might 
have  found  strength  to  stand  upright,  for  his  very  sensitive- 
ness to  impressions  would  have  been  a  help,  since  to  such 
mimetic  brains  the  country  air  is  often  sodden  in  its  tran- 
quillity. Here  at  Long  Furlong,  like  a  dog  with  a  famous 
sire,  he  had  always  been  expected  to  betray  the  qualities 
of  his  forebears,  and  he  had  thoroughly  lived  up  to  people's 
expectations. 

The  next  evening,  with  many  cold  tremors  at  his  audacity, 
Ambrose  set  out  to  call  on  Mr.  Westaway.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  looked  forward  to  a  call  at  the  Vicarage 
with  anything  but  feelings  of  pleasant  anticipation. 

One  of  the  minor  pleasures  of  Mr.  Westaway's  life  was 
the  method  and  neatness  displayed  in  his  note-books,  one 
set  of  which  was  devoted  to  genealogical  accounts  of  the 


The  Strength  of  the  Hills  135 

Devon  families,  and  the  other  to  West-country  folk-lurc 
and  dialect.  It  was  a  joy  to  him  to  inscribe  the  last  page 
of  a  beautifully  kept  register,  and  an  even  keener  joy  to 
begin  writing  up  a  fresh  one.  He  took  pleasure  in  the 
smoothness  of  the  paper  and  the  sweep  of  his  fme  letters; 
for  if  this  world  is  full  of  the  possibilities  of  vexation,  it 
has  also  many  out-of-the-way  occasions  of  delight. 

He  needed  a  little  relief  to-night,  for  he  had  just  been  the 
victim  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Vellacott's  pastoral  attentions. 

''But,  my  dear  Westaway!"  he  exclaimed,  ''the  step 
you  propose  will  give  a  terrible  handle  to  the  enemy.  It 
cannot  but  be  a  mere  phase,  a  temporary  aberration  in  a 
man  so  well-intentioned  as  yourself." 

^Ir.  Vellacott  was  obsessed  by  the  word  "phase";  he 
repeated  it  in  various  connections,  till  his  own  genial  pur- 
pose to  make  the  ^  est  of  both  worlds  proved  so  irritating 
to  a  man  who  felt  himself  a  failure  in  each,  that  Mr.  West- 
away began  to  wish  he  had  never  been  born. 

"I  understand  that  it  isn't  the  oppositions  of  science, 
falsely  so-called,  that  are  driving  you  to  this  course — I  went 
into  that  a  good  deal  once — but  merely  the  want  of  a 
definite  theological  programme  on  the  part  of  our  Church. 
Now  couldn't  something  be  done  by  a  more  judicious  course 
of  reading?" 

Mr.  Westaway  laughed  outright,  for  Mr.  Vellacott  so 
evidently  regarded  him  as  an  infant,  for  whom  something 
temporary  could  be  rigged  up,  with  a  teapot  in  lieu  of  a 
feeding  bottle.  The  good  man  had  departed  with  the 
intention  of  ransacking  his  library  for  Mr.  Westaway's 
benefit. 

It  was  relief  to  Damaris,  in  the  midst  of  her  preoccupa- 
tion with  what  was  called  in  clerical  circles  "the  Westaway 
scandal,"  to  bring  Ambrose  into  the  study,  for  he  would 
surely  not  be  occupied  with  either  theology  or  social  science. 


136  A  Man  of  Genius 

She  settled  herself  by  the  fire  to  hear  his  errand,  rather  to 
poor  Ambrose's  disgust.  For  the  painful  task  of  borrowing 
had  never  fallen  to  his  lot  before. 

"I  turned  back  twice,"  he  said,  "on  my  way  here,  because 
I  can't  bear  to  ask  you  to  help  me." 

"You  can  say  anything  to  me,  I  hope,  my  boy,"  said 
Mr.  Westaway.  "Perhaps  it  would  help  you  if  I  were  to 
talk  about  myself  first.  You  remember  our  talk  in  Exeter  ? 
Well,  I'm  going  to  act  up  to  my  convictions.  I'm  leaving 
Hartland  and  going  to  try  to  spend  some  of  my  money  on 
the  workers  from  whom  it  came.  Now  tell  me  what  you 
come  for  to-night." 

Briefly  Ambrose  stammered  out  the  story  of  the  burning 
of  the  stable.  Before  he  had  finished,  Damaris  crossed 
the  room,  and,  touching  her  father  on  the  shoulder,  said 
impulsively — 

"Father,  we  must  help.    Say  you'll  pay  for  the  refitting." 

"We'll  pay  interest  regularly,"  said  Ambrose  with  a 
scarlet  face. 

As  she  saw  it,  Damaris  felt  that  she  had  embarrassed 
him  further  by  her  presence. 

"My  boy,  you  shall  have  it  gladly.  Damaris  is  right. 
Get  the  estimate  and  reckon  on  me,"  said  Mr.  Westaway 
warmly.  "I  wish  I  could  help  you  professionally,  too. 
I  got  some  curious  information  from  my  lawyer  the  other 
day  about  what  must  have  been  at  one  time  the  estate 
belonging  to  your  forefathers." 

"Tonacombe,  you  mean,  sir,"  said  Ambrose.  "I've 
heard  mother  say  that  father's  people  once  owned  it.  But 
that  was  years  ago." 

"Ay,  Tonacombe,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  "over  in  Mor- 
wenstow  parish.  It's  a  small  estate  now,  for  one  of  the 
Velly  ancestors  divided  it  up  and  sold  portions  of  it,  but 
the  manor  itself  remains,  and  it's  that  rare  thing,  a  barton — 


i 


The  Strength  of  the  Hills  137 

that  is,  land  where  all  the  boundiiry  hedges  are  the  pr()j)erty 
of  the  estate,  showing  that  it  was  originally  held  by  the  first 
settlers  in  the  country,  who  gathered  neighbours  after  their 
settlement." 

With  delicate  tact  Mr.  Westaway  was  trying  to  give 
Ambrose  a  lift-up  out  of  his  present  humiliation. 

''You're  of  a  fme  stock,  Ambro.se,"  he  said.  "Forget 
your  immediate  ancestors  and  go  back  to  the  sources; 
for  those  Vclly  forebears  of  yours  at  Tonacombe  were 
straight  in  all  the  essentials  of  honest  life.  In  all  their 
records  there's  written  the  story  of  clean  living  and  high 
endeavour.'" 

"Father,  father,"  said  Damaris  to  herself,  "what  a 
gentleman  you  are,  for  all  your  perverse  thinking."  Her 
steadfast  eyes  shone  on  Ambrose  with  the  light  that  always 
seemed  to  him  far  above  his  stature,  the  light  that  is  full 
of  the  strength  of  the  hills. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  lately?"  she  asked,  as  with 
the  characteristic  swing  of  his  head  Ambrose  recovered  his 
sense  of  personal  dignity,  lost  for  a  moment  in  his  father's 
degradation. 

"I've  been  a  regular  round  of  visits  to  the  churches 
hereabouts,  drawing  the  wood-carving,"  he  answered.  "I 
know  why  the  old  designers  did  better  work;  they  never 
carved  from  drawn  designs  as  the  moderns  do." 

Ambrose's  chief  attraction  was  that  he  always  took  the 
nearest  person  into  his  confidence,  feeling  sure  that  he 
would  sympathise.  He  usually  did,  for  nothing  in  the 
world  is  so  engaging  as  a  truly  childlike  disposition. 

Damaris  sat  leaning  forward  with  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
trying  to  realise  his  life,  his  double  life  as  student  and 
farmer.  For  he  was  a  relief  from  gentle  scholarliness,  and 
she  was  prepared  to  idealise  everything  in  so  vivid  a  crea- 
ture.    Although  she  had  always  thought  of  him  before  as  a 


138  A  Man  of  Genius 

youth  of  talent,  she  had  often  laughed  at  Mr.  Westaway's 
fondness  for  him.  To-night  she  saw  him  with  her  father's 
eyes,  for  to  her  the  Westaway  house  was  a  house  of  age, 
where  even  the  low,  easy  steps  seemed  made  for  the  faltering 
tread  of  an  old  man.  But  here  was  a  thing  of  sinews  and 
nerves  and  lusty  keenness.  She  had  once  met  him  riding 
a  bare-backed  horse,  and  it  now  seemed  a  revelation  in 
supple  strength.  For  an  imaginative  girl  will  endow  the 
pulpiest  curate  with  the  thews  of  a  Sandow  and  the  nerve- 
force  of  a  Gladstone;  the  readiness  is  all.  In  Damaris 
Westaway's  longing  for  the  real,  too,  Ambrose's  life,  with 
the  scent  of  newly  turned  earth  about  it  and  the  manifold 
humming  of  bees,  was  idyllic,  and  yet  in  a  delicious  sense, 
coarse,  with  the  coarseness  of  splendid  labour  that  strains 
in  the  traces  and  sweats  in  the  sunlight. 

"I've  been  fanciful,"  he  was  saying,  "in  talking  about 
people  copying  nature  in  stone.  They  did  in  carvings,  but 
not  in  building." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  thinking 
that  trouble  seemed  to  be  turning  the  lad  into  a  thinker. 
True,  they  had  been  thought  before,  no  doubt,  these  dis- 
coveries of  his,  but  they  had  not  come  to  him  from  books, 
since  he  saw  scarcely  any  on  architecture. 

"Everything  in  building  comes  from  practical  need," 
said  Ambrose;  "one  man  after  another  adds  an  idea  to 
the  ideas  of  earlier  ones.  Look" — he  took  a  scrap  of 
paper  and  a  pencil  and  began  to  sketch — "the  intersection 
of  the  circular  arch  gave  the  pointed  arch.  And  traceried 
windows  came  from  one  man  putting  in  a  cusp  and  another 
a  window  slit,  and  so  on." 

"No  one  ever  evolved  a  whole  new  form?"  asked 
Damaris. 

"They  grew,"  sai4  Ambrose,  "every  one." 

"I  like  it  better  that  way,"  said  she.     "For  bit  by  bit 


The  Strength  of  the  Hills  139 

a  great  art  is  the  joint  work  of  man,  not  of  a  man.  It's 
one  of  the  finest  thoughts  I've  ever  heard,  for  by  it  we  are 
all  bound  together,  all  seeking  to  express  ourselves,  and  one 
helping  the  other  to  do  so." 

"Father,  too,"  she  thought,  "is  trying  instinctively  to 
join  himself  to  the  work  of  his  age."  Flashing  along  the 
words  came  to  Damaris  a  vague  sense  of  a  deeper  meaning 
still. 

More  life  and  fuller;  it  sums  up  all  the  desires  that  can 
be.  For  from  it  springs  that  desire  for  the  life  of  the  whole 
that  leads  men  to  purity  and  unselfishness,  since  evil  leads 
to  the  death  of  the  whole.  From  it,  too,  springs  the  craving 
for  personal  life  that  hurls  men  down  the  slope  of  death; 
in  desire  for  life  dwells  alike  the  strength  of  the  hills  and  the 
flame  of  hell. 

In  the  beginning,  say  the  mystics,  the  ineffable  felt  the 
desire  for  manifestation — and  to  manifest  oneself  is  to  live; 
out  of  desire  for  life,  then,  came  the  universe. 

"It's  wonderful,  this  progression,"  said  Damaris,  looking 
into  the  fire. 

"But  it  didn't  go  on,"  said  Ambrose  doggedly,  "for  the 
Puritans  killed  all  growth  in  architecture.  And  now  all  we 
can  do  is  to  imitate." 

"One  mistake  of  one  generation,  and  darkness  follows," 
commented  Damaris. 

She  was  inevitably  turning  all  his  thoughts  to  moral 
issues. 

"But  that  makes  it  easier  to  do  the  things  that  seem 
hard,"  she  said;  "for  if  our  bit  of  work  isn't  well  done,  we 
are  breaking  a  greater  chain  than  we  can  ever  measure. 
That  must  be  what  the  Atonement  means.  For  we  are  all 
one,  the  man  that  lives  to-day  and  the  man  that  lived  a 
thousand  years  ago.  All  one,  because  we  work  at  one 
great  task,  the  manifestation  of  the  divine." 


140  A  Man  of  Genius 

As  Ambrose  thrilled  in  response  to  the  aspiration  of  her 
voice,  Th)n-za's  devotion  seemed  to  belong  to  another 
planet,  for  to  hirii  Damaris  was  an  incarnation  of  the 
spiritual,  another  wandering  gleam,  like  the  boy's  voice  in 
the  cathedral.  Of  her  as  woman,  he  hardly  thought  at  all, 
she  seemed  so  far  above  him. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  Mr.  Westaway,  and  not  Damaris, 
who  had  given  him  a  fresh  brood  of  desires.  His  thoughts 
were  with  those  honest  men  of  Tonacombe  who  walked 
their  acres  in  the  light  of  day  and  of  other  people's  approba- 
tion. The  very  fact  of  the  degradation  of  the  present 
representative  of  the  family  knit  the  thought  into  the  fibre 
of  his  heart-strings.  Once  back  there  at  Tonacombe  and 
men  would  forget  there  had  ever  been  a  Velly  of  Long 
Furlong  who  was  constantly  "market-merry." 

The  next  moment  he  laughed  aloud  at  the  preposterous 
folly  of  a  penniless  lad,  who  had  just  borrowed  fifty  pounds 
to  pay  for  the  fitting  of  a  stable,  daring  to  lift  his  eyes  to  the 
manor  of  Tonacombe. 

Yet,  preposterous  as  it  was,  he  began  to  reckon  up  his 
assets.  On  one  gift  he  could  rely:  from  the  mere  plan  of  a 
building  set  before  him,  he  could  paint  a  picture  in  light 
and  shade,  paint  it  as  accurately  as  though  he  had  set 
up  his  easel  in  front  of  its  walls.  He  had  even  been  able  to 
visualise  pictures  of  unbuilt  machines  and  boats,  for  other 
men's  abstractions  were  to  him  solid  realities.  This  gift 
might  gain  him  work  in  a  large  office,  but  it  would  be 
a  mere  journeyman's  wage  that  he  would  earn.  At  the 
knowledge  Tonacombe  faded  into  a  cloud  vision,  the 
merest  castle  in  Spain. 

All  the  while  Damaris  sat  in  front  of  the  study  fire, 
weaving  visions,  too,  and  the  centre  of  them  was  a  man, 
as  is,  indeed,  apt  to  be  the  case  when  the  builder  of  the 
cloud-castle  is  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  WOOD  OF  THE  GOLDEN  SHADOWS 

THERE  was  a  t»'-'se  silence  in  the  kitchen  at  Long 
Furlong  while  one  could  count  a  hundred.  Outside 
the  windows  the  gulls  circled  and  screamed  as,  with  eyes 
that  followed  their  wheeling  flights  unconsciously,  Thyrza 
stood  in  front  of  Mrs.  Velly,  feeling  like  a  swimmer  pushed 
from  a  supporting  plank.  She  continued  to  pass  her  hands 
over  the  creases  of  the  half-ironed  tablecloth  on  which  she 
had  been  at  work. 

"I  can't  afford  to  keep  you,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  with  un- 
usual nervousness.  **If  you've  got  any  eyes  in  your  head, 
you'll  see  I  can't." 

''Does  Ambrose  know  I'm  to  go?"  said  Thyrza  at  last. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  curtly. 

Then  all  these  days,  thought  Thyrza,  Ambrose  must 
have  known  of  the  sentence  of  exile  that  had  been  passed 
on  her;  all  these  days  he  had  been  silent,  letting  the  blow 
fall  without  any  attempt  to  soften  it.  To-day  he  was  away, 
for  Mr.  Westaway  had  given  him  a  commission  to  prepare 
a  dozen  drawings  of  church  screens  for  an  article. 

Beneath  the  woman  who  loves  there  is  always  the  woman 
who  watches,  noting,  with  the  keen  perception  that  she 
would  fain  avoid,  the  amount  of  tenderness  and  protection 
that  her  lover  lavishes  on  her.  For  at  first  she  expects  "  her 
man^'  to  be  the  shadow  of  a  rock  at  noonday  to  her;  she 
confidently  looks  for  the  ways  of  life  to  become  padded 
with  ease  for  her  footsteps. 

141 


142  A  Man  of  Genius 

Thyrza  flashed  into  hate  in  a  second.  She  would  not 
be  cast  off  so  easily,  for  Ambrose  should  be  made  to  pay 
for  his  callousness.  But  as  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Velly 
she  knew  from  the  older  woman's  face  that  her  secret  was 
guessed.  The  knowledge  sealed  her  lips,  for  to  tell  now 
would  seem  like  pleading  to  be  allowed  to  stay  on  suffer- 
ance. 

Then  Thyrza  turned  on  her  heel,  and  without  a  word 
walked  out  of  the  room.  She  had^^'-^t  down  to  the  bare 
essentials  of  the  fact  that  both  Ambrose  and  Mrs.  Velly 
wanted  her  gone.  That  was  all  she  meant  now  to  either  of 
them — a  thing  to  be  quit  of  as  soon  as  it  became  incon- 
venient. Yet  up  till  now,  to  Thyrza,  encircled  by  the  halo 
of  Ambrose's  tenderness,  the  world  had  been  a  glory  instead 
of  a  menace. 

Strong  drink  is  a  mocker;  so  is  love,  so  is  success.  All 
lie,  but  it  is  the  lie  that  we  love;  for  by  it  we  escape  the 
root  fact  of  the  universe,  the  antagonism  of  life  and  nature. 
They  are  all  man's  enemies;  the  fire  that  warms  him,  the 
wind  that  fills  his  sails,  the  sea  that  bears  his  merchandise, 
fierce  beasts  that  wait  for  a  moment's  carelessness  on  his 
part  to  fasten  their  fangs  in  him.  And  the  antagonism  of 
nature  runs  all  through  into  the  spirit  of  man,  for  every 
new  face  is  the  possible  face  of  another  enemy.  Between 
the  universe  and  himself  man  craves,  then,  for  a  halo,  an 
ether  through  which  the  enmity  may  be  unseen.  We  are 
strangers  in  a  hostile  country,  but  we  would  fain  forget  it 
in  the  glamour  of  love,  the  fumes  of  wine,  or  the  exultation 
of  a  moment's  conquest.  And  now  the  ether  was  gone 
from  Thyrza. 

A  little  while  later  she  came  down  again,  to  find  Mrs. 
Velly  going  on  with  the  interrupted  ironing.  The  girl  was 
dressed  in  her  outdoor  clothes,  and  about  her  there  was 
a  quiet  decision  that  cowed  even  Mrs.  Velly. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     143 

"I'm  going,"  she  said  to  the  old  woman;  "I've  packed 
my  box,  and  when  I  want  it  I'll  send  for  it." 

"You  know  I  never  meant  you  to  go  like  this.  Why, 
you've  nowhere  even  to  sleep!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Velly. 

"It  doesn't  matter  what  becomes  of  me,  I  reckon,"  said 
Thyrza;  "but  I  shan't  come  to  harm.  Chrissie  Rosevear's 
often  asked  me  to  stop  with  her  for  a  day  or  two.  I  can 
look  round  from  there  to  see  after  a  place." 

"Half-way  down  the  lane  she  heard  steps  running  after 
her,  and  Mrs.  Velly's  voice  calling — 

"Here,  child,"  said  she,  "here's  a  pasty  for  your  dinner, 
and  your  money.  Don't  'ee  be  harder  on  me  than  you  can 
help.     It  cut  me  sore  to  see  the  way  you  took  it." 

They  sobbed  a  minute,  holding  each  other,  while  through 
the  minds  of  both  flashed  the  memory  of  the  pleasant 
homely  times  that  were  over  now;  the  needlework  with 
the  long  seams  they  had  stitched  together,  the  winter 
afternoons  spent  baking  the  week's  supply  of  cake  or 
buns. 

"You'll  give  'en  my  dear,  dear  love,"  whispered  Thyrza 
at  last.  She  felt  Mrs.  Velly  nod,  but  Thyrza  knew  perfectly 
that  Ambrose's  mother  would  try  to  keep  secret  where  she 
had  gone. 

So  they  parted,  in  a  mood  of  half-dissembled  enmity. 

Outside  Hartland,  Thyrza  sat  for  a  minute  in  the  hedge 
to  wipe  away  the  tears  of  self-pity  that  had  rendered  most 
things  on  the  road  partially  invisible.  She  was  soon  after 
jogging  along  in  the  carrier's  van  that  plies  between  Brad- 
worthy  and  Hartland. 

"My  dear  days,  look  at  that!"  exclaimed  Tammy 
Hockridge  from  the  corner  of  the  cart,  where  she  sat 
opposite  to  Thyrza.  She  was  a  lively,  kissworthy  soul, 
and  licensed  to  sell  beer,  snufif,  and  tobacco  in  Hartland 
town.  , 


144  A  Man  of  Genius 

'"Tis  like  sweethearting,"  said  Mrs.  Vanstone,  who  sat 
by  Tammy's  side;  '^you'm  all  nicey,  he  says  as  plain  as 
if  he  spoke." 

The  eyes  of  all  the  passengers  turned  from  the  oil  swirl- 
ing in  the  overhead  lamp  towards  Thyrza,  around  whom 
a  bee  was  circling  with  a  low  humming  note  of  pleasure, 
neglecting  the  honey  with  which  the  van  was  packed  for 
her  lips  and  hair.  For  a  second  or  two  he  crept  against 
her  neck,  poising  himself  under  her  chin. 

"Iss,  he's  a  sweetheart  and  no  mistake,"  said  Tammy, 
with  a  laugh  as  vivid  as  her  hard,  red  cheeks.  ''Terrible 
scarce,  chaps  be,  too,"  she  added  cheerfully. 

"So  us  must  put  up  with  drumble  drones,  I  s'pose," 
sniffed  a  sour  voice  from  the  darkest  corner;  Mrs.  Good- 
enough  was  one  of  those  fretful  women  who  complain  for 
forty  years  because  the  sun  refuses  to  shine  on  both  sides 
of  the  house  at  once. 

"And  scarcer  up  the  country  than  they  be  here,"  con- 
tinued Tammy. 

"Well,"  said  a  withered,  toothless  remnant,  "'tis  all  for 
the  best  if  they  be  scarce.  Sister  and  me  allays  says  what 
a  blessing  'twas  when  our  only  brother  was  put  away  safe  in 
his  black  box.  For  he'd  have  been  sure  to  have  made  away 
with  our  little  bit  of  money,  spekelating  and  that  with  it." 

"How  old  was  he  when  he  died.  Miss  Beard?"  asked 
Thyrza. 

"He  was  but  two  years  old,  my  dear." 

"Good  land!   that's  early  for  spekelating,"  said  Thyrza. 

"Ay,  they'm  wearing,  chaps  be,"  said  Mrs.  Vanstone. 

"'Tis  dullish  without  'em,  though,"  chimed  in  Tammy. 
"I've  had  two,  and  if  Sam  was  to  go,  why,  I  should  be  on 
the  look-out  for  a  third." 

"One  man  gives  'ee  a  taste  for  'em,  I  reckon,"  said  the 
**bitter  weed"  in  the  corner. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     145 

''My  sister  had  the  worst  old  bufflehead  to  deal  with  that 
ever  I  come  across,"  said  Tammy,  "for  contrarier  couldn't 
be  hatched  than  old  Jim  Lewarne,  that  was  her  husband's 
father.  He  was  allays  over  books,  was  my  sister's  father- 
law,  till  what  he  read  turned  sour  in  'en." 

"Ay,"saidThyrza,  "there's  no  good  in  too  much  o'  that." 

"Well,  my  dears,"  said  Tammy,  looking  round  at  the 
circle  of  womenfolk  in  motherly  fashion,  "at  last  he  would 
have  it  that  there's  too  many  folks  by  half  in  this  'ere  world, 
and  that  'twas  a  sin  that  any  more  little  innocents  should 
be  brought  into  such  a  miz-ma^e  as  this  be." 

"Flying  in  the  face  of  nature,"  said  Mrs.  Vanstone 
firmly. 

"And  so  I  said,"  said  Tammy;  "but  us  cured  'en  of  that, 
did  us  Hartland  women.  For  when  John — that's  my  sister's 
man — died,  her  went  to  keep  house  for  the  old  man,  his 
father,  being  his  daughter-law.  And  that  very  night  the  old 
rapscallion  talked  shameful  to  her.  'I'll  have  no  squally 
brats  about  my  house,'  said  he." 

"Ay,  I  can  mind,"  chuckled  Mrs.  Goodenough,  cheerful 
for  once;    "he'd  a  voice  like  a  girt  bull." 

"So  he  had,  my  dear.  But  for  that  saying,  he  had  a 
judgment.  He  went  away  to  Plymouth  for  six  weeks,  and 
when  he  came  back  he  was  a  granfer,  though  he  didn't 
know  it,  for,  as  luck  'ud  have  it,  the  cheeld  come  when 
he  was  away.  And  that  poor  woman,  my  sister  Liza-Ann, 
didn't  dare  have  the  dear  cheeld  in  the  same  house  with 
that  old  I-talian." 

Italian  is  a  term  of  reproach  in  the  West. 

"Tchuh,  tchuh,  tchuh,"  cackled  the  company. 

"Still  the  poor  soul  couldn't  bear  it  out  of  her  sight,  so 
her'd  carr'  it  up  to  her  room  of  a  night,  secret  like.  But 
he  heard  summat,  for  he'd  say  of  a  morning,  'Never  did  I 
hear  anything  like  they  cats  a-squalling  last  night.'  " 


146  A  Man  of  Genius 

"  And  that  his  own  grandcheeld,"  said  Thyrza,  with  up- 
lifted hands. 

"And  him  that  could  sleep  through  most  nigh  any- 
thing! Contrairy  he  was,  beyond  all  telling.  'But,'  says 
I  to  her,  'this  can't  go  on,  'tis  wearing  of  'ee  to  skin  and 
bone.'  So  us  settled  something.  One  afternoon  Liza-Ann 
pretended  to  go  away  for  the  day.  And  in  the  afternoon, 
when  old  Jim  come  into  the  house,  there,  all  comfortable 
before  the  fire,  was  a  cradle,  and  in  it  a  baby." 

"  The  dear  lamb,"  said  every  one  in  consort. 

"  Liza-Ann  was  watching  from  the  stairs  in  the  dimmet, 
so  that  he  couldn't  see  her." 

"Her  heart  must  ha'  been  going  pit-a-pat,"  said  Thyrza, 
her  eyes  soft  with  childish  delight  in  a  story. 

"He  didn't  say  nort  for  a  bit,  then  he  went  up,  kind  of 
coorious,  and  turned  back  the  blanket  a  bit.  And  there 
he  stood,  with  the  cheeld's  lips  a-twitching  at  him." 

"  Ay;  wanted  rabbits'  brains,  it  did,"  said  Mrs.  Vanstone. 
It  is  the  country  remedy  for  a  child's  facial  twitches. 

"  Presently,  the  dear  doubled  up  his  fistesses,  and  away 
to  go  with  a  bawl.  It  come  out  just  as  us  had  planned. 
And  out  rushed  that  old  gubbins  into  the  green,  fair  mad 
with  the  noise,  and  roars,  same  as  if  he  was  hailing  of  a 
ship — 

"'Hi!  Mrs.  Nancarrow,  Mrs.  Hockridge,  Mrs.  Slee, 
you'm  wanted!' 

"But  us  was  all  shaking  behind  our  window  curtains, 
watching,  and  not  a  woman  of  us  stirred.  At  last  he 
turned,  fair  beat,  and  he  took  that  cheeld  up  and  happing 
upon  the  bottle — 

"Well,  when  Liza-Ann  come  out  of  the  corner,  there 
was  the  baby  a-winking  in  the  old  man's  face,  and  him 
with  his  empty  pipe  in  his  mouth  tor  comfort,  for  he  didn't 
dare  get  his  left  arm  from  under  the  cheeld  to  light  up. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     i  47 

***And,'  says  Liza-Ann  to  'en,  'that's  your  son's  that  is.' 

""Tisn't  a  bad  little  maid,'  says  he,  'but  uncommon 
boney.' 

"'Maid,'  says  she,  laughing;  '  'tis  a  fine  boy-cheeld/ 

"  But  here  us  be  at  last,  thanks  be,"  said  Tammy.  "  I'm 
that  cramped  that  I  couldn't  tell  which  be  my  legs  and  which 
be  the  baskets,  if  'twasn't  for  the  pain  that's  in  'em." 

The  low-roofed,  whitewashed  houses  of  Bradworthy  have 
never  heard  the  whistle  ot  a  train  and  the  cry  of  a  flock  ot 
seagulls  passing  storm -driven  inland  is  the  wildest  sound 
usually  heard  in  this  place  of  old-world  peace.  The  four- 
armed  directing  post  in  the  grassy  quadrangle  round  which 
the  houses  cluster  suggests  the  leisure  of  pack-horse  travel- 
ling, and  is  as  full  of  the  romance  of  the  past  as  the  magic 
phrase  "the  great  north  road."  To  stand  on  the  green  in 
the  shadow  of  the  coming  night,  when  the  light  from  the 
inn  doors  lies  ruddy  across  the  grass  and  the  forge  fire 
sends  up  a  shower  of  sparks,  is  to  feel  the  thrill  of  the  days 
when  the  highways  were  full  of  the  zest  of  "stand  and 
deliver." 

Pattens  are,  even  now,  not  unknown  in  Bradworthy  in 
the  fall,  when  woodlands  are  miry  and  the  grass  a  pulp 
of  sodden  roots,  when  lanthorns  flicker  across  from  house 
to  house  in  the  long,  dark  autumn  evenings,  when  the  hours 
strike  solemnly  from  the  belfry  tower,  and  the  only  other 
sound  is  the  cackle  of  a  goose,  or,  mayhap,  the  voices  of 
housewives  calling  from  doorstep  to  doorstep. 

Chrissie  Rosevear's  cottage  looked  on  the  green,  and 
Chrissie  herself  was  kneading  dough  at  the  table  of  the 
living-room. 

"Well,  I  never  did,  Thyrza  Braund!"  she  exclaimed, 
"and  have  you  come  to  market  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
folks  ?  Come  in  the  van,  have  'ee  ?  Come  right  in  and  sit 
ye  down,  my  dear." 


148  A  Man  of  Genius 

It  was  market-day  in  Bradworthy,  and  down  one  side  of 
the  square  stood  a  few  cows,  dropping  milk  from  full  udders, 
with  tottering  calves  at  their  flanks.  Over  the  stalls  of  the 
market-women  circled  a  mass  of  bees,  supplementing  the 
bass  and  treble  of  the  human  chorus  with  their  hum. 

"  I've  left  Long  Furlong  for  good,"  said  Thyrza.  "  Mrs. 
Velly  says  she  cannot  afford  to  hire  any  more." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  I'm  surprised,  nuther.  And 
there's  another  thing.  'Tis  never  safe  to  have  a  woman 
younger'n  seventy -five  in  the  house  with  a  man  about,  and 
I  reckon  that's  what  Mrs.  Velly  found." 

Thyrza  smiled  a  rather  wan  smile,  although  the  sugges- 
tion was  not,  on  the  whole,  displeasing. 

"  Can  I  bide  here  with  'ee  a  bit,  Chrissie  ?  I  dunno  where 
else  to  go,  and  I  can  pay  all  right  till  I've  got  a  new 
place." 

"There,  cheeld,"  said  Chrissie,  getting  up  and  giving  her 
a  great  smacking  kiss.  "Your  bite  and  sup'll  cost  little 
enough.  You  shall  bide  as  long  as  ever  you  want  to.  As 
long  as  you  can  put  up  with  John,"  she  laughed;  "  for  he's 
aggravating  in  some  ways,  though  a  long  sight  better'n  he 
used  to  be  to  live  with.  It  gives  me  the  toothache  some- 
thing cruel  when  he  begins  to  whistle;  but  if  a  woman 
makes  her  wedded  man  a  worrit,  her's  worse  than  a  hen 
that  complains  of  fleas  in  a  poultry  roost.  So  I  never  say 
nothen  to  'en  about  the  whistling." 

From  outside  the  cottage,  where  John  Rosevear  was 
occupying  the  dinner-hour  in  nailing  up  a  creeper,  there 
came  the  words  whistled  through  his  teeth  over  and  over 
again  without  cessation — 

Up  and  down  the  City  Road, 

In  and  out  the  Eagle, 
That's  the  way  the  money  goes, 

Pop  goes  the  weasel. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     149 

Then  Chrissie  caught  a  glimpse  of  Thyrza's  face. 

"  Just  you  come  upstairs,"  she  said,  "  now  you've  had  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  have  a  wash,  and  then  go  out  and  see 
what's  going  on.  I'd  go  with  'ee,  but  I  must  get  this 
baking  done.  And  if  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  set  my  mind 
upon  what  might  have  been,  but  upon  what  is — and  make 
up  my  mind  to  like  it." 

Thus  Chrissie  voiced  the  gre:it  working  principle  of 
practical  philo.sophy. 

As  Thyrza  looked  down  on  the  tops  of  the  peo[)lc's 
heads  from  the  bedroom  above,  she  began  to  feel  that  aflcr 
the  stillness  of  the  farm  this  was  the  great  world,  (jood 
cheer  came  back  to  her,  as  she  brushed  out  her  hair  and 
watched  it  ripple  under  the  strokes  in  a  bright  mass.  Then 
she  leant  for  a  moment  over  the  window-sill.  A  cheap- 
jack,  or  Johnny  Fortnight,  as  travelling  pedlars  are  called 
by  the  "old  ancient"  folks  in  the  west,  was  shouting  from  a 
chair  on  which  he  stood.  Against  the  directing  post  close 
by  four  pigs  scratched  their  black  hides.  Above  the  men's 
shouts  and  the  women's  cackle  Thyrza  could  just  catch  the 
cheap-jack's  words.  He  had  passed  from  the  selling  of 
toothache  cure  to  deal  with  the  matter  of  wedding  rings,  or 
brass  circles  that  passed  for  such  at  a  distance. 

"Here,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  he,  holding  up  a 
disc  that  flashed  in  the  sunshine,  "  is  the  time  to  provide 
against  the  future.  Here's  a  brand  new  wedding  ring, 
warranted  to  bring  health,  happiness  and  long  life  to  the 
happy  pair,  and  all  for  half  a  crown." 

"And  how  many  kids?"  shouted  a  voice. 

"  Just  a  baker's  dozen,"  answered  the  chapman  with  a 
grin. 

"Then  'tis  not  for  my  money,"  said  a  yokel,  while  his 
maiden  nudged  his  ribs  to  reduce  him  to  silence. 

"  It  can't  be  that  there's  no  more  marrying  and  giving  in 


150  A  Man  of  Genius  1 

marriage  in  this  here  charming  village  retreat!  What  offers, 
gentlemen?" 

"They'm  all  married  a'ready,  and  wish  they  wasn't," 
shouted  some  one. 

"Tenpence,"  said  a  sheepish  lad  on  the  extreme  out- 
skirts of  the  crowd. 

"Wedded  bliss  for  tenpence!"  cried  the  cheap- jack; 
"  and  who  says  the  Liberals  have  sent  the  prices  up,  with  a 
wedding  ring  going  for  tenpence?" 

"  One  shilling,"  said  a  voice  well  known  to  Thyrza.  She 
stood  on  tip-toe  with  a  wildly  beating  heart,  and  as  she  did 
so  she  caught  a  flash  from  the  bidder's  eyes.  It  was 
Ambrose;  across  the  crowd  their  glances  met,  till  he  could 
see  her  bosom  heave. 

"Ay,  here's  the  gent  for  my  money,"  said  the  Johnny 
Fortnight,  handing  Ambrose  the  ring. 

A  few  minutes  later,  at  a  sign  from  him,  Thyrza  hurried 
downstairs  and  out  of  the  house.  At  the  sound  of  her 
going,  John  and  Chrissie  stared,  open-mouthed. 

"My  dear  sawl,  just  look  at  that,  John,"  said  Chrissie 
from  the  doorstep,  as  she  saw  Thyrza  and  Ambrose  pass 
the  house  with  glances  locked  and  hands  not  far  off  the 
same  linking.  "The  little  rip!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why, 
she  come  over  here  on  purpose  to  meet  'en!  John,  my 
mind  misgives  me." 

"Don't  'ee  turn  a  vinegar-bottle  in  your  old  age,  my 
dear,"  said  John,  removing  the  nails  from  his  mouth  for 
the  purpose  of  enjoying  a  more  commodious  grin;  "'tis 
naught  but  a  bit  of  sweethearting,  and  that'^  as  sure  to 
come  as  death  and  taxes." 

Mrs.  Rosevear's  sniff  would  have  been  audible  on  the 
other  side  of  the  green  on  normal  Bradworthy  days  as  she 
watched  the  two  walking  away  from  the  crowd.  ,  ,.4, 

"Why,  Thyrza,  what  on  earth's  the  meaning  of  this?"*' 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     i  5  1 

asked  Ambrose.  "  I  rode  over  to  have  a  look  at  the  c hurch, 
and  very  peculiar  it  is  to  see  so  large  a  one  supjx^rted 
without  pillars.  But  what  in  the  name  of  wonder  are  you 
doing  here?" 

He  had  taken  her  left  hand  and  was  slipping  the  ring  he 
had  bought  of  the  cheap- jack  on  her  wedding  finger.  She 
resisted  a  little,  exclaiming  pettishly,  "  'Twill  bring  bad 
luck,  Ambrose,  for  'tis  but  brass."  But  he  persisted  in  his 
effort. 

"A  Brummagem  marriage,"  he  laughed.  "There,  just 
glance  down  at  it.     Doesn't  it  look  fine?" 

"Why,  what  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  noticing  her 
pale,  distressed  face.  "  Don't  let  my  foolishness  worry  you. 
Here,  let's  take  it  off  at  once." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  remove  it. 

"  Your  mother's  turned  me  away,"  she  said.  "  I  know 
what  'twas  for,  too.  And  you  didn't  care  if  I  had  to  go, 
not  after  all  there's  been  between  us." 

At  the  sight  of  his  face  her  bitter  anger  had  died  away, 
but  nothing  could  destroy  her  feeling  of  his  unkindness. 

"Thyrza,  don't  you  know  there's  just  one  thing  I  can't 
bear?  I  hate  to  see  people  miserable.  I  couldn't  tell  you 
that  mother  wanted  you  to  go;  'twasn't  in  me  to  see  your 
lips  quiver  and  your  eyes  fill  with  tears.  I  did  try  to,  but  I 
couldn't  do  it.  I  went  away  to-day,  partly  because  I  knew 
she  was  going  to  speak  to  you.  But  here  we  are  together 
after  all.  Isn't  it  just  too  good  to  be  true?  The  whole 
world's  in  a  conspiracy  to  bring  you  and  me  together, 
love." 

They  wandered  away  from  the  houses  into  the  country 
stillness  that  laps  the  village  close.  Turning  across  a  field 
path  that  led  from  the  road  upwards  to  a  wood,  they 
pushed  open  a  rickety  gate  and  found  themselves  in  a  cir- 
cular plantation  of  trees,  mostly  ashes,  the  witch-ashes, 


152  A  Man  of  Genius 

that  bleed  when  cut,  according  to  country  superstition. 
Here  in  the  centre  of  the  trees  there  was  a  cleared  space 
where  the  sunlight,  caught  in  a  net  by  the  branches,  blazed 
hotly  on  the  pale  primrose  and  tawny  brown  hues  of  bracken. 

Thyrza  sat  on  a  felled  tree-trunk  and  Ambrose  lay  down 
beside  her.  The  sound  of  the  faintly  sighing  wind  outside 
sent  shudders  of  joy  through  the  girl's  blood.  Here,  in 
summer,  the  place  was  full  of  the  acrid  smell  of  the  cow- 
parsley,  that  speaks  of  love's  cruelty,  of  the  nepenthe  of  the 
blue-bells,  the  nepenthe  of  love's  yielding,  full,  too,  of 
waves  of  hawthorn  scent,  threaded  with  the  keen  savour 
of  woodruff. 

Now  only  the  golden  shadows  fell  between  the  tree- 
trunks,  and  as  Ambrose  looked  down  the  glades  all  round 
them,  he  seemed  to  have  gone  back  to  a  time  when  men 
and  women  were  part  of  the  glory,  not  the  shadow,  of  a 
world  darkened  by  no  human  sense  of  pain. 

"  The  wood  of  the  golden  shadows,  my  Thyrza,"  he  said, 
laying  his  head  on  her  lap,  while  she  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  curl  a  lock  of  his  hair  round  her  finger. 

But  it  was  impossible  for  Thyrza  to  forget  the  sorrow  of 
parting  in  the  joy  of  the  moment;  for  to  do  that  is  the 
man's  gift,  and  is  only  learnt  by  women  after  a  long  ap- 
prenticeship to  trouble. 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  schooling  herself  to  quiet  speech 
with  a  loving  woman's  instinctive  terror  of  annoying  a  man, 
"  don't  'ee  care  that  now  we'll  never  meet  ?  And  I  thought 
we'd  soon  be  married,  and  that  you'd  go  on  living  at  the 
farm." 

"But  we'll  manage  to  meet  sometimes,  Thyrza." 

"But  'tisn't  the  same  as  it  used  to  be,  as  'twas  till  only 
this  morning." 

He  moved  restlessly,  in  hatred  of  tears. 

"Do  *ee  care  for  me  really,  Ambrose  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  ShadoWvS     153 

"I  love  you,  Thyrza.  But  you  must  remember  that  I've 
my  way  to  make." 

But  she  could  not  understand  how  he  could  {)ut  anything 
before  their  love;  it  is  the  great  limitation  of  such  as 
Thyrza. 

"Ambrose,"  she  asked,  "do  'cc  think  if  1  never  have  'ee 
for  my  own  here,  I  will  somewhere  else?  I  mean  after 
we're  dead.  For  I  feel  now  that  you'm  going  away  from 
me.     Leaving  Long  Furlong's  altered  everything." 

"I  don't  know,  Thyrza,  for  some  don't  think  there  is 
another  life  for  us  at  all." 

"And  I  might  miss  'ee,  too,"  said  Thyrza,  the  vastness  of 
fate  overwhelming  her  fancy. 

'But  I  shall  often  see  you.  Never  mind  about  the 
shades.  We're  solid  lovers,  child,  you  and  I,"  protested 
Ambrose. 

"Do  'ee  remember  the  cricket,  Ambrose?  We'll  never 
hear  'en  together  again." 

"Never  mind.  We'll  get  another  one  somewhere,  when 
we  set  up  house  together." 

They  sat  in  silence,  till  Ambrose's  lids  sank  and  deeper 
breathing  came  from  him.  He  had  been  up  all  the  night 
before,  as  Thyrza  knew,  with  a  sick  animal.  When  his 
breathing  told  that  he  was  sound  asleep,  she  took  off  her 
cloak  and  threw  it  over  him. 

The  watching  face  above  him  became  older,  as  the 
shadows  fell  instead  of  the  sunlight.  Lines  that  would 
be  on  it  years  later  were  faintly  foreshadowed,  as  the  purple 
afterglow  began  to  fill  the  sky. 

To  the  thought  of  a  woman  who  loves  there  is  no  present. 
Backward  in  the  lives  of  the  women  whose  instincts  thrill 
through  her  nerves,  she  lives;  forward  into  the  future,  her 
fancies  spring.  In  the  first  kiss  a  woman  feels  all  her 
life-5tory;    she  knows  what  it  will  be  to  feel  the  downy 


I  54  A  Man  of  Genius 

head  of  a  child  on  her  breast,  almost  she  can  hear  the  sound 
of  its  cry.  As  Thyrza  waited  she  grew  desperate,  for  she 
knew  now  that  this  man  belonged  to  a  world  where  she 
could  not  follow  him.  With  the  faint  hold  over  him  that 
absence  would  give  her,  she  would  soon  fade  to  a  grey 
ghost,  haunting  in  time  the  shadowy  places  of  casual 
recollection.  She  knew  that  it  was  getting  late,  that  Chrissie 
would  wonder  what  had  become  of  her.  But  these  moments 
were  as  gold  to  the  miser,  as  honey  of  wheat  to  the  famine- 
stricken. 

At  last  Ambrose  moved,  opened  his  eyes  and  sat  up. 

''Why,  Thyrza,"  he  said,  "what  have  you  been  doing  to 
let  me  sleep  like  this  ?  " 

He  bent  down  to  look  at  his  watch. 

''Come,"  he  said,  "you  look  pinched  with  cold." 

They  walked  back  to  Bradworthy  in  silence,  Thyrza  in 
the  comatose  condition  that  follows  on  emotion,  and 
Ambrose  in  a  mood  of  annoyance.  The  clouds  were 
massed  overhead  by  now,  and  the  night  was  evidently 
bringing   rain. 

As  they  entered  the  village  Thyrza  told  him  where  she 
was  staying. 

"But  you  must  have  some  tea  before  you  go  back  to 
Chrissie's,"  he  said,  leading  the  way  across  the  trampled 
grass  to  the  inn.  He  ordered  their  meal  in  the  upstair 
room  that  looks  out  across  the  square. 

"You're  frozen,  little  wife,"  he  said,  drawing  her  to  the 
fire  that  the  waitress  had  just  lit,  and  pulling  off  her  wet 
shoes.  "  There,  listen  to  what  I  shall  have  to  ride  through," 
he  continued,  as  the  lash  of  the  rain  began  to  sweep  across 
the  house  roofs. 

There  was  a  haste  on  him  to  be  gone,  but  he  would  not 
let  her  see  it,  lest  she  should  misconstrue  it,  in  her  own 
enjoyment  of  the  sweet  sorrow  of  parting.     In  his  restless- 


f 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     155 

ness  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  Yet  he 
tried  to  tell  himself  what  a  good  day  they  had  enjoyed 
together. 

''When  do  'ee  start?"  she  asked  later  on,  when  the  tea 
things  had  been  removed  and  she  could  sit  curled  up  on 
the  rug. 

"In  a  minute  or  two,"  he  said,  feeling  a  dreaa  of  him- 
self that  amounted  to  panic. 

"That's  good-bye,"  she  whispered.  "Ambrose,  there'll 
be  other  women,  I  reckon.  But  I'll  have  had  'ee  for 
to-day." 

"Thyrza,  Thyrza,"  he  cried,  drawing  her  up  to  him, 
"there's  no  other  woman  but  you." 

But  she  persisted. 

"It  has  been  good  to  be  with  'ee,  Ambrose,  even  if  it's 
all  I  ever  have." 

The  silence  was  full  of  voices.  The  wash  of  rain  came 
steadily  down,  and  through  the  open  window  they  could 
see  a  lanthorn  light  flickering  across  the  square.  The 
lowing  of  a  cow  robbed  of  her  calf  was  the  only  other  sign 
of  life. 

"'Tis  like  home,  this,"  she  said,  "home  for  you  and  me. 
Like  happy  women  live  always,  side  by  side  with  their  man." 

"Ay,  'tis  home  for  to-night,"  said  Ambrose. 

Something  strange  in  his  voice  made  her  glance  at  his 
face.  "Little  missus,"  he  whispered,  lifting  her  hand  where 
the  brass  ring  still  shone. 

In  a  flash  of  memory  his  words,  "a  Brummagem  mar- 
riage," sounded  like  a  sneer;  no  gold,  only  brass  for  her. 
And  she  had  been  driven  from  his  mother's  house  this 
morning.  Pride  turned  the  scale,  changing  her  weakness 
to  strength. 

"Now  you  must  go,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  don't  know 
whatever  Chrissie  will  say  to  me  as  it  is." 


156  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Forgive  me,"  he  whispered,  ''for  all.  But  you're  the 
dearest  thing  there  is  in  the  world  to  me,  a  part  of  my  life 
for  ever." 

She  managed  to  show  quite  a  smiling  face  to  him,  as 
she  stood  in  the  porch  of  the  inn  watching  him  ride  away. 
But  it  took  her  a  long  time  to  get  across  to  Chrissie's  cottage. 
Before  she  had  reached  it,  indeed,  Ambrose  had  joined  a 
man  he  knew  and  was  deep  in  horse-talk,  deliberately 
turning  his  thoughts  from  the  sadness  of  parting. 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  cottage  Chrissie  was  waiting 
for  her  guest,  whilst  John,  brushing  up  in  the  room  above, 
shook  with  silent  laughter  at  the  storm  of  her  eloquence. 
He  was  delighted  to  hear  the  thunder  rattling  about  some 
one  else's  ears,  and  through  the  unplastered  ''planchin'" 
he  could  hear  every  word. 

"Now,"  said  Chrissie,  "just  you  sit  down  there  and 
hear  what  I've  got  to  say  to  'ee.  I've  kept  company  with 
several  in  my  time." 

"Ho!"  said  her  husband  to  himself. 

"But,  let  me  tell  you,  I  always  knew  how  to  respect 
myself.  You'll  come  to  a  bad  end,  Thyrza  Braund,  and 
Mrs.  Velly  had  her  reasons." 

"She  didn't  want  Ambrose  to  get  to  care  for  me,  that 
was  all.  Oh,  Chrissie,  don't  scold  me  any  more.  I  shan't 
see  'en  for  nobody  knows  when." 

"I  wasn't  born  for  the  Garden  of  Eden  afore  there  was 
any  need  for  fig-leaves,"  snapped  Chrissie.  "And  you 
can't  fill  up  my  mouth  with  a  lot  of  old  wool,  telling  me 
you  didn't  know  you'd  meet  'en  here." 

"  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Thyrza  doggedly;  "  but  if  you  go 
on  same  as  this  is,  I  shall  go." 

"Where?" 

"Idunno.     But  I  won't  stay  here." 

"Yes,  you  will.     You  don't  cross  this  dreshel  to-night. 


The  Wood  of  the  Golden  Shadows     i  57 

You'll  sit  down  there  and  eat  your  supper  like  a  decent 
Christian." 

Chrissie  was  scintillating  with  joy  at  the  prospect  of  a 
fresh  campaign.  Her  hunger  for  material  on  which  to  work 
was  really  the  reason  for  her  quickly  recurrent  matrimonial 
ventures,  for  each  new  husband  had  a  new  set  of  habits 
that  required  pruning.  Thyrza  was  almost  as  great  a  god- 
send as  a  new  man  would  have  been,  for  John,  now  rolling 
about  in  piu-o.xysms  of  delight  overhead,  was  really  getting 
a  trifle  too  closely  clipped  to  supply  much  practice  for 
Chrissie's  special  talents. 

"What's  that  on  your  fmger?"  she  screamed,  as  she 
caught  sight  of  the  ring.  *'Now,  I  know  how  you  got 
that.  Well,  afore  I'd  allow  a  man  to  make  game  of  me 
like  that,  I'd  see  'en  to  Flanders.  You've  let  yourself  be 
treated  light,  that's  plain,  or  there  wouldn't  be  that  old 
mockery  upon  your  finger.  Eighteen  carat  gold  wouldn't 
be  too  good  for  me,  I  can  tell  'ee,  and  it  oughtn't  to  be  for 
you.  Take  it  off  and  shy  it  on  the  fire,  and  the  ne.xt  young 
man  that  comes  along,  tell  'en  to  respect  'ee." 

Thyrza  took  it  off  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  Chrissie 
tossed  it  contemptuously  into  the  stove  fire. 

"I  like  men  myself,"  she  said  expansively,  "and  I  like 
to  have  plenty  of  'em  about.  That's  the  worst  of  marriage," 
she  added  frankly;  "it  gives  'ee  but  one  to  manage,  and  I 
could  easy  keep  a  dozen  of  'em  going.  But  they'm  like 
great  jolly  chillern,  and  you  must  sweeten  their  porridge 
for  'em  yourself,  else  they'll  empt  the  whole  basin  into  it. 
Just  you  keep  all  the  sweets  from  'em  under  lock  and  key, 
and  when  I  say  sweets,  I  don't  mean  sugar.  For  you've 
got  to  make  up  your  mind  to  lead,  just  as  far  as  you  have  a 
mind  for  'em  to  go,  and  no  further.  I've  heard  women  say 
they  wish  they'd  been  born  men.  I  don't.  Anybody  can 
be  a  man  for  me.     For  the  men  may  do  the  work,  as  far's 


1^8  A  Man  of  Genius 

I'm  concerned,  if  they'll  only  leave  me  one  job — the  manage- 
ment of  them  that  does  it." 

Thyrza  sat  dazed  under  this  flood  of  eloquence,  yet, 
remembering  the  look  in  Ambrose  Velly's  eyes  that  night, 
she  had  a  dim  comprehension  of  the  trend  of  Chrissie's 
cryptic  utterances. 

"My  dear,"  said  Chrissie  kindly,  "after  a  pause,  never 
mind  how  many  men  you  have  to  do  with,  so  long  as  you 
keep  to  one  rule." 

She  held  up  her  forefinger  impressively. 

"Let  'em  leave  the  better  for  having  knowed  'ee  and  not 
a  mite  the  worse.  For  though  they'm  big  and  masterful 
outside,  'tis  from  us  women  they  learn  to  think  high — or 
think  low — in  their  heart  of  hearts.  And  from  nobody  else. 
I  allays  say,  tell  me  what  women  he  likes,  and  I'll  tell  'ee 
what  the  man  is." 

"But  now,"  she  said,  in  a  hospitable  bustle,  "I  wouldn't 
run  any  more  tears  into  that  pancake  if  I  was  you,  for  'twill 
make  it  lie  heavy  on  your  stomich,  and  I  kept  it  a-purpose 
for  you  and  popped  it  into  the  oven  the  minute  I  heard  'ee 
coming  up  the  path.  And  don't  you  worrit  about  Ambrose 
Velly,  for  what's  no  good  never  comes  to  any  harm.  I 
don't  think  any  wrong  of  'ee,  not  me.  'Twill  work  out  to 
'Will  'ee  have  this  woman,'  all  right  and  proper,  with  you 
and  him.     Just  you  see  if  it  doesn't." 

"No,  it  won't,"  sobbed  Thyrza,  regardless  of  pancake. 

"Well,  and  if  it  don't,  'twill  be  somebody  better  then. 
I've  often  thought  I  was  rather  too  quick  in  settling  on  John, 
when  I've  seed  some  fine  upstanding  chap  or  other." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  John  to  himself,  wisely  descending 
the  stairs,  in  order  to  avoid  further  revelations. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  LEAPING  FLAME 

WHISTLING  now  high,  now  low,  with  trills  and 
quavers  most  delightful  in  their  happiness,  Ambrose 
bent  over  his  work  in  the  barn  at  Long  Furlong.  One 
ray  of  sunlight  from  a  window  near  the  roof  lit  up  the 
musky  stillness  of  the  place  where  long  trestle  tables  stood 
piled  with  wood-carving  tools  and  the  materials  for  model- 
ling in  plaster. 

It  was  Sunday,  the  only  day  when  he  could  count  on 
uninterrupted  leisure  for  some  hours;  and  before  him  lay 
a  panel  on  which  he  was  carving  a  design  of  wheatears, 
working  straight  on  to  the  material,  without  a  drawn 
design.  The  cranks  and  pistons  of  his  brain  were  going  full 
steam  ahead,  while  he  watched  the  picture  in  his  mind  as 
though  it  were  an  image  reflected  in  the  still  waters  of  a 
lagoon.  Then  suddenly  the  tune  of  the  ''Raggle-taggle 
gypsies"  ceased,  for  he  had  struck  upon  the  idea  which 
was  to  influence  much  of  the  aftercourse  of  his  life;  all  the 
time  that  he  had  been  trying  experiments  on  plaster  or  on 
wood  he  had  been  learning  the  first  lesson  of  the  plastic 
artist,  the  limitations  of  material.  By  beginning  with 
painting  he  had  started  at  the  wrong  end.  Instead,  he 
must  set  himself  to  learn  the  qualities  of  stone,  wood,  glass, 
iron,  even  of  drapery.  In  short,  it  concerned  him  to  be 
a  craftsman  first,  for  only  so  was  it  possible  to  rival  the 
work  of  the  master-craftsmen  of  old  who  speak  a  language 

»59 


i6o  A  Man  of  Genius 


we  understand,  but  which  we  stammer  haltingly,  as  men 
use  a  foreign  tongue  with  which  they  are  not  at  home. 

"The  working  hands  and  the  designing  brain  cannot 
ultimately  be  separated,  as  they  are  now,"  he  said  slowly 
to  himself.  Then,  in  a  moment,  he  sketched  the  structure 
of  a  life-work;  in  a  flash  he  saw  the  great  workshop,  echo- 
ing with  saw  and  chisel,  hammer  and  steam-crane,  that  he 
would  build.  It  pleased  him  to  fancy  that  in  his  veins  ran 
the  blood  of  a  race  of  artificers,  for  out  of  goldsmiths'  shops 
there  have  come  artists  by  the  score.  Already  he  could 
hear  the  rhythmic  tapping  of  hammers,  beating  in  unison 
like  a  mighty  heart  of  labour,  the  warmest,  most  brotherly 
sound  in  the  world,  and  fuller  far  of  hope  than  the  chanted 
benedictions  of  church  aisles.  For  through  all  diversity  of 
purpose,  it  is  the  sense  of  the  common  aim  of  labour  that 
heartens  to  his  task  the  loneliest  thinker,  no  less  than  the 
busiest  engineer. 

Then,  as  if  a  hand  had  passed  a  sponge  across  a  slate,  it 
was  all  blotted  out  in  the  thought  of  his  poverty  and  depend- 
ence, of  the  practical  struggle  for  mere  existence  that  was 
before  him. 

To  the  making  of  the  plastic  artist  there  go  so  many  en- 
dowments that  it  is  no  wonder  so  few  have  been  given  to 
the  world.  The  perception  of  the  nature  of  the  material  in 
which  he  works,  the  power  to  visualise  what  he  would 
create,  these  are  the  first  half,  the  mental  gift.  But  without 
the  power  of  the  trained  hand,  shaped  through  dark,  un- 
traced  channels  of  ancestry,  the  mental  gift  is  of  no  avail. 
And,  most  difficult  of  all,  there  must  be  a  single-hearted 
devotion  that  sees  no  other  object  worthy  of  effort  save  the 
one.  For  the  world  only  yields  the  rarest  secrets  of  her 
loveliness  to  the  man  of  single  mind,  and  knowledge  of  the 
world's  loveliness  is  genius,  greater  or  less  in  proportion  to 
the  secrets  known. 


I 


The  Leaping  Flame  i6i 

And  that  means  death — death  to  many  motives  that  rule 
other  men;  for  the  artist  has  to  learn  to  sport  only  with  the 
tangles  of  the  Muse's  hair. 

Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife.  .  .  . 

So  it  runs,  and  with  truth.  Above  all,  art  suffers  no  bowing 
in  the  temple  of  Mammon,  and  over  her  temple  is  written — 
"Abandon  affairs,  all  ye  who  enter  here." 

But  these  things  were,  as  yet,  hidden  from  Ambrose,  and 
already  between  him  and  his  work  there  had  stolen  the 
thought  of  Thyrza  Braund  alone  to-day  over  in  Bradworthy, 
for  John  and  Chrissie  Rosevear  were  spending  the  Sunday 
with  Caleb  Vinnicombe.  Smiling  at  the  thought  of  how 
her  lips  trembled  when  the  tears  came,  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  sad  little  note  he  had  received  from  her  yester- 
day. It  was  a  matter  of  half  an  hour  after  that  to 
saddle  Merrylegs  and  be  off. 

Over  the  country  there  lay  the  stillness  of  frost,  death  in 
the  earth  grappling  with  the  vital  impulse  of  the  cloudless 
sunlight.  The  great  dome  of  air,  purple  with  distance  and 
tingling  with  frost  and  sunshine,  throbbed  over  the  rolling 
])lains  where  the  marshy  bottoms  gleamed  with  ice-mirrors, 
over  the  valleys  grey  with  hoar-frost,  and  over  the  wooded 
hilltops  where  the  trees  caught  the  glory  of  the  molten  sun. 
The  twitter  of  a  half-dead  bird  from  the  hedge,  the  whirring 
flight  of  field-fares  from  a  thawing  patch  of  grass-land,  the 
occasional  call  of  snipe  or  woodcock  from  the  sedge,  were 
the  only  clear  sounds  to  be  distinguished. 

It  was  getting  dim  when  he  reached  Bradworthy,  and 
tawny  circles  of  light  from  cottage  lamps  were  beginning  to 
shine   like   huge  glow-worms  from   the  rooms  where  the 
women  were  spreading  white  tablecloths  for  tea. 
II 


1 62  A  Man  of  Genius 

The  Rosevears'  cottage  was  dark,  and  at  first  Ambrose 
thought  his  ride  was  going  to  be  in  vain,  but  he  caught 
sight  of  Thyrza  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  house  next  door. 
She  was  balancing  the  bare  pink  toes  of  a  baby  on  her 
hand,  while  the  little  creature  moved  its  body  from  side  to 
side,  in  the  ecstacy  of  budding  strength.  As  she  held  the 
child,  she  sang  the  cuckoo  song  of  the  West.  In  the  words 
of  it  there  came  back  to  Ambrose  the  memories  of  his  own 
childhood,  for  it  was  from  Mrs.  Velly  that  Thyrza  had 
learnt  it.  In  the  rush  of  blood  to  his  heart,  he  felt  the 
mighty  force  that  sweeps  men  in  the  resistless  current  of 
creation  towards  that  birth  and  re-birth  by  which  the  pur- 
pose of  the  ages  is  fulfilled. 

**The  cuckoo  is  a  fine  bird, 
He  singeth  as  he  flies, 
He  bringeth  us  good  tidings, 
He  telleth  us  no  lies. 

He  sucketh  the  sweet  flowers 
To  make  his  fine  voice  clear, 
And  when  he  sings  'cuckoo,* 
The  summer  draweth  near," 

sang  Thyrza.  "Cuckoo!  Cuck,  cuck!"  cried  she,  placing 
her  lips  on  the  child's,  while  between  the  kisses  Ambrose 
could  divine  the  loud  breathing  that  in  a  healthy  baby 
always  accompanies  these  active  movements.  But  presently 
the  head  sank  forward  with  a  sleepy  murmur  against  the 
girl's  neck.  Patting  the  round,  beflanneled  back,  Thyrza 
rocked  herself  to  and  fro.  "  I  love  to  feel  'en  give  his  little 
snores,"  she  said  to  the  mother,  who  was  bending  over  the 
cradle  preparing  the  smooth  nest  of  sheets  and  pillows. 

"  My  word!  it's  you  that  ought  to  have  a  dozen,"  laughed 
the  woman.  Then,  as  they  heard  the  sound  of  a  footstep 
outside,  they  both  caught  sight  of  Ambrose,  Thyrza  with 
the  sense  of  surprise  always  felt  in  looking,  after  absence, 


1 


The  Leaping  Flame  163 

on  the  longed-for  face  of  a  friend.  With  a  word  of  excuse, 
she  got  up  and  joined  him. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  as  they  walked  away,  "it  seems  so  long 
since  I  left  Long  Furlong." 

At  last,  as  they  stood  in  the  darkening  fields,  covered 
now  in  the  hollows  by  a  rising  mist,  he  said — 

"Look  at  me,  Thyrza." 

His  look  drew  her  eyelids  up,  and  in  her  eyes  he  read 
the  satisfaction  for  the  deepest  longing  he  possessed — the 
sympathy  that  can  see  no  wrong  in  the  thing  loved.  This 
alone  held  him  to  her,  and  would  hold  him  even  against 
other  attractions;  for  Thyrza  saw  him  as  every  man  likes 
to  be  seen,  with  the  weakness  hidden  and  the  faults  glossed 
over. 

"Dear  heart,"  he  asked,  "what  would  make  you  love  me 
less?" 

"Nothing.     But  I  should  die  if  you  flung  me  away." 

"But  if — I  cared  for  some  one  else?" 

"Then  I  would  come  back  after  she  was  gone." 

"You  would?     Yes,  I  really  believe  you  would." 

"Don't  you  know  'tis  for  always  that  I  love,  Ambrose? 
Nothing — not  death  even — could  take  'ee  from  me.  If  I 
died,  I  should  just  be  waiting  for  'ee,  dear,  to  come." 

"But  what  if  there  wasn't  anything  of  you  to  wait, 
love?" 

For  answer  she  laid  his  hand  on  her  breast.  "Can'st 
hear  it  beat?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered. 

"'Tis  only  the  body's  heart  that  you  feel.  But  behind 
that  there's  another  heart  of  me  that  lives  always,  and 
always  for  you — in  heaven  or  hell,  or  at  the  gates  of  death." 

"Thyrza,  Thyrza,  what  is  it?"  he  cried. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  trembling.  "I  know  deep  in  me  that 
I  cannot  die;  you  cannot  die;   none  can.     We  must  go  on 


1 64  A  Man  of  Genius 

and  on,  often  to  suffer,  often  to  fall.  We  cannot  die  if  we 
would.  Never  to  get  away  from  ourselves.  It's  awful  to 
think  that  we  cannot  die." 

"  But  why  do  you  talk  about  dying  ?  You  are  so  happy, 
so  merry,  in  my  arms." 

"Ah,  but  you're  all  to  me.  And  I  can't  be  all  to  you; 
no  one  woman  is  to  any  man.  God  made  men  to  love 
many,  and  a  woman  to  love  but  one.  Ah,  if  I  could  only 
die  in  your  arms  and  never  know  anything  more!  For 
the  touch  of  your  arms  to  be  the  last  of  life,  the  last  of 
feeling " 

"Thyrza,  if  I  came  to  do  wicked  things?" 

"'Twould  still  be  you.  What  do  I  care  whether  your 
skin's  dirty  or  clean,  when  under  the  skin  there's  you — the 
you  that  holds  me." 

"But,"  he  said  to  tease  her,  "when  your  roses  fade  and 
the  lines  come  and  the  hair  grows  grey,  what  if  I  don't 
care  then?" 

"And,"  she  smiled,  "when  you're  bald  and  lined,  do  you 
think  it  will  make  any  difference  to  me?  Ah,  no.  But 
'tis  different  with  a  man,  I  know.  Even  then,  there'll  still 
be  the  other  side  to  look  for,  the  other  side  of  death.  And 
there'll  be  memories,  too." 

In  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  the  pulsing  of  the  star,  the 
swaying  of  the  tide,  lives  the  love  of  such  as  Thyi^a;  for 
it  gauges  the  depths,  not  of  human  life  only,  but  of  the 
very  elements  of  wind  and  star  and  water,  for  of  such 
affinity  was  born  the  universe;  deeper  is  it  than  the  nerves 
that  thrill  through  the  brain,  closer  than  the  blood  that  is 
pumped  through  the  heart;  for  it  is  a  force  that  speaks 
when  nerves  and  blood  are  still,  as  it  spoke  when  human 
nerves  and  blood  were  not,  save  in  creative  thought.  It  is 
the  essence  of  love  itself,  this  desire  of  the  star  for  the 
star,  the  atom  for  the  atom,  the  living  soul  for  the  soul 


The  Leaping  Flame  165 

of  life.  No  thinking  can  destroy  its  intangible  quality,  for 
it  is  deeper  than  the  tool  of  any  image-breaker  can  reach. 

Then  they  turned  back  to  the  Rosevears'  cottage,  and  over 
their  meal  Thyrza  told  the  story  of  how  she  had  tramped 
from  farm  to  farm  in  search  of  work.  She  had,  at  last, 
after  many  a  weary  pilgrimage,  found  daily  work  at  a  place 
close  by,  so  that  she  could  still  sleep  at  Chrissie's. 

She  stood  by  the  open  hearth  fire,  with  the  flimsy  edge 
of  her  dress,  unperceived,  lying  close  to  the  burning  logs. 
Suddenly  a  long  flame  darted  to  her  waist,  and  with  a  cry 
Ambrose  had  caught  her,  and  was  crushing  the  fire  out 
with  his  hands,  pressing  her  against  the  cloth  of  his  clothes. 
It  was  one  of  the  moments  that  women  remember  long 
afterwards,  in  the  years  when  the  glamour  of  the  man's 
love  has  faded,  in  those  years  when  great  suffering  is  not 
regarded  half  as  anxiously  as  a  hurt  finger  once  was. 

At  last,  when  the  fire  had  been  extinguished,  Ambrose 
put  out  the  lamp  with  his  scorched  hands,  and  drew  her 
down  to  him.  Through  the  window  pane  there  twinkled 
the  green  ray  of  a  solitary  star,  and  they  could  hear  the 
night  wind  wandering  round  the  walls. 

As  Ambrose  held  her  in  the  quick  breathing  of  his 
startled  nerves,  he  said — 

"Think  what  might  have  happened  if  I  hadn't  been 
here.     I  want  to  have  you  always  by  me." 

"  Ambrose,  you  must  go  now.  You'll  be  very  late  home 
else.     Just  a  minute  more  and  then  I  shall  turn  you  out." 

"  I  shan't  leave  you  till  Chrissie  comes." 

"She  isn't  coming  to-night,  for  they'll  get  a  lift  home 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning." 

In  the  upleap  of  a  flame,  Thyrza  caught  sight  of  his 
strained  face.  Still  she  clung  to  Chrissie's  words,  "Let 
every  man  be  the  better  for  'ee,  not  the  worse." 

Suddenly  three  curious  whistled  notes  came  from  outside 


1 66  A  Man  of  Genius 

the  window.  It  was  a  gay,  birdlike  sound,  and  for  the  last 
ten  days  it  had  awakened  Thyrza  every  morning  at  five 
o'clock,  when  William  Bagelhole  went  to  his  work.  At 
the  sound  the  lonely  longing  of  those  mornings  came  back 
to  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  want  to  be  strong.  'Tis  for  you  I 
want  it." 

"Look  outside,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  icy  cold  of  the 
night;  " that's  death,  the  symbol  of  lovelessness.  Can  you 
bear  it  ?  With  my  heart  beating  for  you  ?  Look,  Thyrza, 
look  at  the  flames.  Body  and  soul,  who  knows  the  differ- 
ence when  the  flames  leap  in  one?  And,"  he  whispered, 
"  'tis  you  women  who  rule  the  gates  of  life  that  the  leaping 
flame  throws  open.  Thyrza,  I  saw  you  with  that  child 
in  your  arms.  Do  you  know  what  it  told  me  about  you  ? 
And  even  now,  you  are  mine." 

Still,  with  her  feeble  rushlight  of  intelligence,  Thyrza 
tried  to  pierce  the  darkness  of  the  future.  Yet,  painfully 
peering  into  his  life,  she  could  only  see  hers  and  his  together. 
He  would  forget  his  ambitions  and  settle  with  her  at  the 
farm.  Secretly,  she  believed  Mrs.  Velly  expected  that. 
Besides,  how  could  he  fail  to  know  what  was  best  for  both  ? 
He  was  so  much  above  her,  and  Chrissie  had  only  known 
men  like  John  Rosevear. 

"  You  shall  come  back  to  Long  Furlong,"  Ambrose  whis- 
pered, "  and  this  time  we'll  be  married  with  a  real  gold  ring.'* 

Soon  within  the  cottage  the  great  silence  had  fallen.  It 
is  always  the  same  silence,  whether  the  city  street  roars  out- 
side, or  only  the  night  wind  sighs,  for  it  is  the  silence  of  a 
woman's  heart  that  waits.  Then  Thyrza  heard  through  the 
stillness  a  sound  like  the  dripping  of  water-drops  in  the 
depths  of  a  well;  it  was  the  curious  beating  of  tiny  pulses 
in  herself.  At  last,  that  too  ceased,  and  the  darkness  fell — ■ 
the  darkness  that  closes  the  eyelids  as  with  weighted  lead. 


The  Leaping  Flame  167 

that  stretches   numbness   on  soft  limbs,   that  arrests  the 
passage  of  time. 

There  was  no  time  for  her  now,  no  past  that  remembered, 
no  future  that  hoped  or  feared.  It  was  the  endless  Now. 
This  point  in  eternity  was  eternity,  without  end,  as  it  had 
been  without  beginning.  She  was  the  woman  soul  of  the 
ages.  There  was  no  time,  no  space,  no  pain,  no  want,  no 
longing.  Little  tremors,  like  the  faint  touches  of  the  light 
on  aspen  leaves,  like  the  quivering  wind-gusts  on  still 
pools,  passed  through  nerve  and  brain.  Then  the  silence 
and  the  warm  darkness,  all  enveloping,  enfolded  her  in  the 
eternal  Now. 


The  window  panes  next  morning  were  squares  of  sullen 
light,  and  the  ivy  outside  the  window  rustled  with  the  move- 
ments of  the  birds  tumbling  from  boughs  and  nests. 

Thyrza  turned  in  her  sleep,  and  with  the  turning  came  a 
dream. 

Peter  at  the  gates  of  Paradise  sternly  shaking  a  key.  It 
was  the  huge  door-key  of  Hartland  Church,  and  Peter  a 
cruel,  bearded,  ear-ringed  knave.  There  stood  a  woman 
outside  the  gates  with  a  dim  crowd  of  waiting  figures 
behind  her. 

Dumbly  she  implored  admittance;  sternly  he  shook  the 
key. 

Then  she  was  aware  of  a  great  angel  behind  the  grim 
fisherman. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  angel,  "  I'll  see  what  it's  like  outside." 

And  the  next  moment  he,  too,  stood  outside  by  the 
woman,  whom  she  knew  to  be  herself. 

"Would  you  come  in  without — him ?"  asked  the  angel. 

"Nay,  Lord;   but  where  is  he?"  she  stammered. 

"  Outside,"  answered  the  angel  curtly. 


1 68  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Then  I  stay  outside  too.  I  only  wanted  entry  to  find 
him." 

Through  the  bars  of  the  gate  the  light  shone  on  sunny 
vistas;  without,  the  cruel  wind  smote  shivering  bodies,  but 
she  turned  away. 

Then  she  looked  down  at  her  side,  for  at  the  bend  of 
the  waist  outside  her  drab  clothes,  a  point  of  heavenly 
white  curved  round  tenderly;  it  was  the  tip  of  the  angel's 
wing. 

"  'Twas  where  he  used  to  clasp  me  close  when  he  drew 
me  near.  Lord  Angel,"  she  said.  "Just  where  the  waist 
grows  small." 

"Ay,"  said  the  angel,  "that's  why  they  took  out  the  rib, 
for  a  man's  close  clasping  in  the  tender,  old  earth-way.  I 
thought  you'd  like  it."  Then  he  laughed,  for  the  angel  had 
a  sense  of  humour. 

"There's  much  love  outside,"  said  he  to  Peter,  as  he 
passed  within  the  gates  once  more. 

Then  only  the  wind  blew  in  the  chaos  outside  the  gates, 
as  Thyrza  awoke  to  the  knowledge  of  her  changed  life 
where  there  already  waited  the  first  gleaning  of  the  harvest 
of  bitterness.  For  the  prayer  she  had  prayed  last  night 
was  answered,  the  prayer  that  whatever  pain  there  was  to 
be  borne  should  be  her  portion,  since  where  his  weakness 
had  called  for  her  strength,  it  had  called  in  vain.  In  the 
one  appeal  that  life  had  made  to  her  for  self-control,  she 
had  failed,  and  in  doing  so  had  made  the  man  she  loved 
"think  low"  of  women.  Henceforth,  save  by  walking  on 
her  own  heart,  she  could  never  bring  him  any  uplift,  for 
her  weakness  had  dragged  down  in  his  eyes  the  honour  of 
women. 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  though  to  shut 
out  the  knowledge. 

In  the  barn  at  Long  Furlong,  where  he  had  thrown  him- 


The  Leaping  Flame  169 

self  on  the  hay  after  his  return,  Ambrose,  too,  awoke  at 
the  first  daylight.  His  first  thought  was  of  Thyrza,  and 
hurriedly  rising,  he  searched  in  the  dimness  for  pencil  and 
paper  to  write  her. 

"My  wife,"  he  wrote,  "I  want  you  to  have  it  always 
before  you  that  nothing  can  ever  come  between  us  now. 
Never  let  any  fear  of  the  future,  any  sense  of  present  lone- 
liness trouble  you;  for,  my  Thyrza,  I  am  always  between 
you  and  any  sorrow  that  may  threaten  you — you,  the  one 
great  gift  of  my  life.  You  shall  be  here  at  the  farm  as  my 
wife  in  a  month  or  two  at  latest.  I  would  ask  for  a  secret 
marriage,  but  there  is  no  need.  I  only  have  to  accustom 
my  mother  to  the  thought  of  it,  and  then  you  shall  come. 
Have  no  misgivings,  no  mistrust.  Nothing  can  ever  come 
between  us  now." 

The  face  that  bent  above  the  paper  was  hardening  into 
a  man's  strength.  For,  here,  in  the  downgrade  of  the 
family  fortunes,  he  had,  by  his  own  act,  made  the  foothold 
of  all  still  more  precarious.  It  was  the  death-blow,  as  he 
believed,  to  his  career;  for  with  Thyrza  as  his  wife  he  must 
look  for  work  as  overseer,  or  land-agent,  if  he  were  very 
lucky.  Yet  from  all  shadow  Thyrza  should  be  protected; 
he  would  belittle  their  love  by  no  weak  repining,  above  all, 
by  no  vulgarity  of  callous  neglect. 

Yet  he  knew,  deep  down,  whence  it  never  came  to  the 
surface,  that  where  the  test  of  a  man  is  his  work,  the  supreme 
test  of  a  woman  is  the  character  of  the  love  she  inspires. 
From  that  unspoken  condemnation,  living  as  it  does  in  the 
heart  of  things,  no  power  on  earth  could  free  Thyrza,  since 
there  can  be  no  bringing  back  of  yesterday. 

As  Ambrose  packed  up  his  tools,  meaning  never  to 
touch  them  again,  he  marvelled  at  the  unknown  strength  of 
the  force  that  had  arisen  against  him.  In  moments  of  vital 
choice,  something  that  we  never  before  knew  to  exist  in  us 


170 


A  Man  of  Genius 


leaps  to  life,  something  that  we  gaze  at  aghast,  even  while  it 
takes  the  direction  of  our  destiny  into  its  hands.  Ambrose 
knew  this,  but  he  was  still  unaware  of  the  fact  that  this 
something  is  the  self  our  visions  have  framed;  but  from  the 
darkness  where  we  bred  it,  it  comes,  created  by  the  desires 
we  have  cherished  and  the  thought-shapes  we  have  formed. 
In  the  memory  of  yesterday  Ambrose's  fancies  flew  again, 
in  this  fresh  proof  of  the  Velly  degeneracy,  to  those  ancestors 
of  his  who  long  ago  had  been  men  of  sterling  honour.  In 
a  measure,  his  letter  was  an  offering  to  their  Manes,  though 
born  of  his  tender  pity  for  Thyrza. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  PRAYER  OF  WOMEN 

IN  the  larch  plantation  through  which  Thyrza  was  pass- 
ing on  her  way  home  from  work,  the  touches  of  spring 
were  becoming  visible,  for  she  had  now  been  staying  in 
Bradworthy  for  nearly  three  months.  She  walked  slowly, 
for  this  was  the  usual  trysting-place  with  Ambrose,  whom 
she  expected  to  meet  to-day. 

In  front  of  her,  vistas  of  green  shadow  stretched,  while 
along  the  avenue  between  the  trees  lay  a  pathway  of  sun- 
light across  the  carpet  of  moss.  From  the  lower  branches 
of  the  trees  hung  hoary  lichens,  like  the  ancient  memories 
that  thrill  in  the  glance  of  the  oungest  child.  The  air  was 
filled  with  the  murmur  of  numberless  tiny  water-courses 
pushing  their  way  through  beds  of  moss  and,  where  the 
trees  had  been  slightly  cleared,  the  mist  of  sunlight  gathered 
in  pools  of  topaz  shadow.  Like  the  ghost  of  a  sound, 
from  the  branches  above  came  the  faint  roar  of  the  wind, 
never  insistent,  but  always  there  like  the  unseen  power 
of  fate.  Under  the  trailing  brambles  a  primrose  peeped 
from  the  huge  leaves  that  woodland  shadows  always  en- 
courage in  this  plant,  and  as  she  stooped  to  pick  it  she  saw 
Ambrose  Velly  at  the  end  of  the  avenue. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  hand  in  hand,  each  seeking 
silently  for  courage  to  break  through  the  strange  loneliness 
that  enwTaps  even  those  who  love. 

''Turn  back,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  let  us  stay  here  until 
171 


172  A  Man  of  Genius 

it's  time  for  you  to  be  going  home.  Chrissie  won't  be 
expecting  you  yet,  for  it's  quite  early." 

On  the  fallen  trunk  of  a  log  he  laid  his  coat  for  her. 
Then  again  a  silence  fell  between  them,  till,  laying  his 
hand  across  hers,  he  asked,  ''Thyrza,  what's  troubling  you? 
For  there  is  something,  I'm  sure;  you've  never  met  me  like 
this  before." 

"And,"  she  smiled,  "you've  something  too.  Tell  yours 
first." 

"No;  yours,"  he  persisted. 

"You  know  what  you  wrote  about  our  marriage,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  looking  down  at  her  hands  as  she  spoke; 
"you  said  in  a  month  or  two  at  latest." 

"That  brings  me  straight  to  my  trouble  my  Thyrza. 
Have  you  wondered  why,  in  the  times  we've  met  since,  I've 
never  said  a  word  about  it?" 

She  was  silent,  but  he  knew  it  was  because  she  would 
utter  nothing  that  seemed  like  a  reproach. 

"It  is  just  the  weakest  point  in  me  that  you  have  struck 
now,"  he  said.  "You  remember  how  I  skulked  about  for 
days  like  a  tail-piped  dog,  because  I  knew  mother  wanted 
to  send  you  away?  It's  the  same  now.  Every  word  that  I 
wrote,  I  meant — and  mean  it  now.  You  are  my  own  wife, 
in  my  eyes;  but  just  now  I  cannot  add  any  more  burdens 
to  what  my  mother  already  has  to  bear.  Thyrza,  you  must 
not  ask  it  of  me." 

"That  means,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  voice,  "that  you 
break  your  word — that  we  cannot  be  married." 

He  took  her  cold  hands  in  his  and  drew  her  closer. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said.  Then,  as  she  quivered,  he  watched 
her  closely,  for  indeed,  it  was  a  hard  thing  to  tell  her  the 
truth,  to  strike  the  brightness  from  her  face  and  see  the 
leaden  look  of  misery  dawn  instead.  "I  want  you  to  face 
things  straight,  child,"  he  said  tenderly.     "My  mother  is 


The  Prayer  of  Women  173 

making  a  fight  against  terrible  odds,  against  odds  that  she 
knows  nothing  of,  poor  soul.  Ask  yourself,  Thyrza,  whether 
her  son  can  add  another  mite  of  pain  to  the  load  she 
carries." 

"You  should  have  thought  of  that  months  ago,  Ambrose," 
she  said,  disengaging  herself  from  him.  Leaning  forward 
with  eyes  that  saw  nothing  of  the  scene  in  front  of  her,  she 
was  watching  the  cloud,  now  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand, 
that  was  gathering  over  all  her  future. 

"My  heavens,  I  know,  I  know!"  said  Ambrose,  as  he 
paced  restlessly  to  and  fro;  "but  we  mustn't  lose  our  heads 
— we  must  think  of  every  one  and  everything." 

"Except  me,"  she  said,  shivering,  as  an  animal  contracts 
its  muscles  at  a  hostile  touch. 

"That's  devilish  unfair,"  he  said  angrily,  and  then  check- 
ing himself,  continued  quietly,  "At  home  we're  at  our  last 
gasp,  and  mother's  fighting  with  her  back  to  the  wall,  which 
is  undermined  beneath  her  very  feet,  though  she  doesn't 
know  it.  We  shall  have  to  leave  in  less  than  si.x  months 
now,  for  father's  had  notice  to  quit,  though  he  won't  have 
her  told.  There  will  have  to  be  a  sale  then,  when  she 
knows,  to  pay  for  the  more  pressing  debts.  My  Thyrza," 
he  said,  holding  her  to  him,  "  I  want  you  to  be  brave,  and 
not  add  any  weakness  to  me  now.  I  want  every  ounce  of 
fight  there  is  in  me.  Little  one,  you  are  the  dearest  thing 
I  have;  but  not  even  for  you  can  I  aim  another  blow  at 
mother.  She  almost  starves  herself,  as  it  is,  for  the  debts 
are  adding  up.  And  father  knows  too,  and  for  whole  days 
at  a  time  he'll  sit  never  moving  from  his  chair,  or  what's 
worse,  he'll  go  wandering  over  the  fields  he'll  soon  have  to 
leave.  He's  sober  mostly;  but  how  can  I  bring  you 
there?" 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  when  the  end  comes,  then?" 
asked  Th)Tza,   listening  to  the   muffled  beatings  of   her 


1 74  A  Man  of  Genius 

heart.     "I  didn't  know— I  didn't  know  how  bad  it  was, 
Ambrose." 

"How  could  I  write  such  things?"  he  said  impatiently.      . 
"But  directly  they're  settled  in  a  cottage,  I  must  get  away     A 
to  some  architect's  office.     I've  a  good  all-round  knowledge 
of  country  work,  and  I've  written  to  my  old  chief  already. 
Then,  when  I've  got  work,  you  shall  come  to  me." 

"Oh,  no;  oh,  no,"  she  cried,  with  breathless  sobs;  "I'd 
shame  'ee.  I'm  only  fit  for  rough  country  ways.  I  thought 
you'd  always  be  on  a  farm,  where  I  do  belong." 

"Thyrza,"  he  whispered,  "can  you  forget  so  easily?" 

"Forget!     Ah,  my  God,  'tis  you  who've  forgotten." 

"Thyrza,  there  is  no  reason,  is  there,  why  we  should  be 
married  openly  at  once?  No  reason  that  makes  it  neces- 
sary for  you,  I  mean.     Tell  me,  my  own.     Tell  me  frankly." 

Praying  blindly  for  strength  to  lie,  she  held  her  breath 
for  a  moment,  thinking  of  the  weight  of  his  trouble,  gaug- 
ing her  own  strength  to  endure,  calculating  where  she  could 
count  on  help.  In  a  moment  she  saw  the  bright  eyes  of 
the  bird  that  had  watched  her  from  the  ivy,  when  she 
awoke  to  the  desire  that  all  the  pain  of  their  sin  might  be 
hers.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  her  lover's  as  they  gazed 
intently  at  her. 

"No,  Ambrose,"  she  said  in  clear  tones  that  sounded  in 
her  own  ears  like  a  defiance  to  fate.  "I  know  what  you 
mean,  but  there  is  no  reason  for  me.  I  will  wait  and  be 
brave  till  you  can  take  me  openly." 

The  last  words  were  very  low,  for,  indeed,  the  future 
was  full  of  terror  for  her.  But  as  she  looked  in  his  thank- 
ful face,  she  would  gladly  have  repeated  the  lie  a  hundred 
times. 

"I'll  never  add  so  much  as  a  straw  to  your  trouble, 
Ambrose,"  she  cried;  "'tisn't  in  me  to  do  it.  For  there's 
nothing  in  the  world  I  wouldn't  bear  for  'ee." 


The  Prayer  of  Women  175 

As  Ambrose  watched  the  brave  light  in  her  eyes,  he  felt 
as  though  the  mountain  wind  of  self-reliance  was  blowing 
through  him.  It  was  almost  a  shock  to  him  to  tind  in 
Thyrza  the  strong  helpmate  that  is  sometimes  born  out  of 
passion  in  an  erring  woman, 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  at  first  I  thought  I  must 
put  all  my  ambitious  thoughts  aside?" 

She  knew  what  he  meant,  in  the  intelligence  that  love 
and  pain  were  bringing,  and  shivered  again  at  the  thought 
of  the  widespread  evil  she  had  so  nearly  wrought  in  him. 

"Come,"  he  continued;  "you're  cold.  Let's  get  out  of 
this.  Come  out  into  the  field.  But  now  I  know  that  such 
a  notion  was  the  greatest  folly.  Why,  I  should  feel  like  a 
sea-gull  with  its  wings  dipt,  if  I  were  tied  to  a  farm.  Just 
think  of  the  dreary  second-best  of  all  the  years,  and  there 
might  be  forty  or  fifty  of  them!  'T wouldn't  be  bearable. 
I  wish  you  could  understand,  child,  how  I  long  to  see  the 
thing  that  my  brain  begot  showing  in  the  face  of  men.  I 
want  to  realise  myself — oh!  if  I  only  could.  Lord!" — he 
laughed — "what  a  fool  I  am  to  ramble  on  like  this." 

They  were  crossing  the  field  now,  and  in  the  distance 
Thyrza  could  akeady  see  the  stile  where  Ambrose  always 
left  her,  lest  they  should  be  seen  together  by  any  of  the 
people  of  the  village. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said.     "I  want  to  understand." 

"Th}Tza,"  he  answered,  stopping  suddenly,  "just  think 
what  it  must  be  to  have  secretly  seen  in  your  mind  a  beau- 
tiful thing  that  no  one  else  has  any  idea  of.  And  then 
to  tell  it  out  plainly  to  all  the  world.  Why,"  he  laughed, 
as  he  looked  at  her,  "it's  like " 

But  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  the  glance  of  a  sleep-walker. 

"'Tis  like,"  she  said,  "when  a  woman  sees  the  child  that 
her  love  gave  her." 

"Thyrza,"  he  cried,  as  they  stood  by  the  stile,  "why,  I've 


176  A  Man  of  Genius 

never  seen  you  like  this!  You  were  always  a  little  pigeon 
that  I  love,  but  now,  you  understand." 

''Ay,  Ambrose;  more  than  once  I  thought  I  would,  and 
if  ever  you  feel  like  thinking  hardly  o'  me,  remember  that 
there  wasn't  anything  as  went  deeper  than  the  love  of  you 
— and  yours,"  she  added  in  a  lower  voice. 

With  a  long  kiss  they  parted,  and  Ambrose  stood  for  a 
long  while  watching  her;  but  she  never  turned  back  to  look, 
lest  he  should  see  her  sick  white  face.  Yet  she  thanked 
God  that  she  had  found  courage  to  lie;  for  the  little  sun- 
lover  was  a  woman  now,  with  a  woman's  sorrowful  courage 
to  bear  the  lot  she  had  chosen. 

Ambrose  would  not  follow  till  Thyrza  was  safe  in 
Chrissie's  cottage,  for  he  was  anxious  to  shield  her  from 
all  possibility  of  gossip.  But  as  he  turned  on  his  heel  to 
return  to  the  wood,  a  man  got  up  from  the  hedge  and 
came  towards  him.  It  was  John  Darracott,  evidently  on 
tramp,  for  by  the  side  of  the  hedge  was  a  bundle  in  a 
handkerchief  at  the  end  of  the  stick  by  which  it  had  been 
carried. 

"Hullo,  Darracott,  that  you?"  said  Ambrose,  affecting 
an  ease  that  he  was  far  from  feeling.  "I  heard  you  were 
leaving  the  Quay,  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  to  come  to 
Bradworthy." 

The  moment  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  he  recog- 
nised that  they  sounded  like  a  sneer. 

"I  hope  you'll  have  better  luck,"  he  finished,  feeling  a 
slight  tinge  of  contempt  at  remembering  how  Darracott 
had  given  his  false  evidence  at  the  Board  of  Trade  en- 
quiry with  the  uncompromising  directness  of  an  accom- 
plished liar.  Yet  the  poor  devil  must  have  suffered,  too, 
thought  Ambrose,  noticing  the  whitening  of  his  hair  and 
beard. 

"I'm  deuced  thankful,"  he  said  to  himself,  in  a  glow  of 


The  Prayer  of  Women  i  77 

self-approval,  "that  I  didn't  add  a  stone  to  the  heaps  he's 
had  tiung  at  him." 

"I'm  not  going  of  my  own  free  will,"  said  Darracott. 
"Master  give  me  notice,  but  I've  got  work  to  Appledore, 
at  the  gravel-loading." 

At  that  very  moment  a  farm-cart  heaped  with  his  bits  of 
furniture  was  rumbling  along  the  Bideford  road,  on  its  way 
to  the  coast.  But  his  K)nging  to  see  Thyrza  once  had 
brought  him  to  Bradworthy.  Xow  he  carried  with  him  the 
picture  of  her  with  her  head  on  Ambrose  Velly's  shoulder, 
her  whole  attitude  that  of  comj)lcte  surrender. 

"Stop  a  bit,  sir,"  he  said,  as  Ambrose  was  for  leaving 
him;   "I've  a  word  to  say  to  'ee." 

In  the  tone,  even  more  than  the  words,  there  was  antag- 
onism, but  the  younger  man  held  himself  well  in  hand. 

"Now,  Darracott,"  said  he,  with  a  laugh,  "I  know  that 
you  watch  over  Thyrza  Braund  like  an  old  hen  with  one 
chick;  but  all  the  same,  you  know,  nobody  ever  constituted 
you  her  guardian.  You  aren't  her  godfather,  I  suppose,  by 
any  chance,  are  you?" 

"Believe  it  or  not,  as  you  please,"  said  Darracott  savagely, 
"but  I've  not  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  her  till  to-night,  not 
since  you  seed  me  with  her  last.  Would  to  God  I'd  watched 
her  day  and  night  afore  she'd  come  to  this!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Ambrose  in  a  cutting  tone,  "I'd  better 
say  at  once  that  whatever  construction  your  foul  thoughts 
may  have  put  on  what  you  saw,  Thyrza  Braund " 

"I  know  well  that  she's  no  wanton;  but  if  all's  straight 
in  your  mind,  why  aren't  you  courting  her  open?  For 
you're  not.  You're  not!  And  if  others  saw  you  and  her 
together,  same  as  I  did,  where's  her  good  name  gone?" 

The  truth  in  the  man's  words  stung,  but  Ambrose  con- 
cealed his  annoyance. 

"What  a  trusty  old  watch-dog  you  are,"  he  said.     "Any- 


178  A  Man  of  Genius 

how,  a  kiss  or  two  won't  do  Thyrza  any  harm.  I'll  warrant 
she  knew  what  they  were  like  before  I  taught  her.  'Twas 
only  by  the  merest  chance  I  met  her  to-day." 

"That's  a  foul  lie!"  said  Darracott.  "And  Thyrza 
Braund  never  would  ha'  kissed  any  man  that  way  without 
she'd  given  him  her  whole  heart  and  soul.  And  that  I'd  go 
to  hell  to  prove.  You're  lying  to  me  as,  I  make  no  doubt, 
you've  lied  to  her!" 

The  deep  breathing  of  the  two  men  panted  for  a  second 
through  the  sudden  gloom  that  was  gathering  from  the 
thunder-clouds  all  round.  Then  Ambrose  crashed  his  fist 
at  Darracott's  face,  and  the  two  men  grappled,  rocking  to 
and  fro  for  a  second,  each  trying  to  get  a  secure  grip. 
Curiously  enough  it  was  Ambrose  that  was  the  calmer  of 
the  two,  for  Darracott's  heart  was  bursting  with  mingled 
pity  and  rage.  But  at  last  the  stronger  man  lifted  the 
lighter  off  his  feet,  and  in  another  second  would  have 
given  him  a  back-fall  had  not  a  sudden  sense  of  the  shame 
of  it  all  arrested  the  movement  of  every  muscle. 

Quietly  Darracott  set  his  enemy  down,  and  struck  up 
his  arm  as  Ambrose  would  have  aimed  a  second  blow  at 
him. 

"Quiet,  sir,  quiet,"  he  said,  drawing  deep  breaths. 
"What's  the  good  of  going  at  it  like  mad  bulls?  We're 
making  matters  worse." 

They  stood  at  gaze  for  a  second,  till  at  last  Ambrose  held 
out  his  hand. 

"You've  done  me,"  he  said;  "or  you  would  have  in 
another  second.  I'm  sorry,  Darracott,  I've  given  you  pain. 
But  I  love  her  as  honestly  as  you  do,  I  believe." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,  sir,"  said  Darracott  in  a  low  voice. 
"But  ye  donno  how  easy  'tis  to  smirch  the  honour  of  a 
maid." 

It  was  with  a  pang,  half  of  shame,  half  of  relief,  that 


The  Prayer  of  Women  1 79 

Ambrose  recognised  the  man's  simple  belief  in  Thyrza's 
honesty.  He  evidently  knew  nothing,  surmised  nothing 
more  than  a  concealed  courtship. 

"And  I've  acted  wrong,"  continued  Darracott  sadly; 
"  for  all  the  anger  can  do  naught  but  make  things  worse. 
You'll  act  true  to  her,  sir;  for  there's  men  as  would  give 
their  ver}'  life  for  one  minute  of  her  love,  same  as  you've 
had  to-night." 

"  Darracott,  I  will,"  said  Ambrose;  "  I  never  meant  any- 
thing else.  She'll  be  my  wife  as  soon  as  I  can  manage. 
Only  you  maddened  me  so,  I  wouldnH  say  it.  For  I  don't 
want  the  whole  story  noised  about  by  all  the  gossips  of 
the  place." 

"No  gossip  will  come  from  me,"  said  Darracott  quietly. 

So  they  parted,  and  Darracott  turned  his  back  on  the 
village.  At  the  end  of  an  hour  his  face  was  in  the  other 
direction,  and  by  night  he  was  back  in  Hartland;  for  he 
could  not  leave  Thyrza  helpless  and  alone.  His  hatred 
for  Ambrose  had  evaporated;  but  he  felt  that  the  lad  was 
somehow  in  a  tangle  from  which  he  would  not  have  strength 
to  extricate  himself.  Yet  he  must  be  forced  to  declare  his 
engagement  to  Thyrza,  to  make  it  no  longer  a  hole  and 
corner  business.  How  this  was  to  be  done,  Darracott  had 
not  the  faintest  idea;  the  only  thing  he  knew  was  that  he 
could  not  go  away.  To  his  employer  at  Appledore  he 
wrote  that  his  place  must  be  filled  up,  if  need  be,  for  he 
could  not  arrive  for  some  days,  possibly  weeks.  In  the 
simplicity  of  his  great  love  there  was  no  sense  that  he  was 
interfering  in  what  was  no  concern  of  his,  for  to  him  every- 
thing to  do  with  Thyrza  was  his  affair. 

As  Ambrose  rode  back  to  Long  Furlong,  through  the 
storm  that  was  coming  up  against  the  wind,  he  remembered 
that  he  must  be  especially  careful  of  the  mare,  Merrylegs, 
for  she  was  already  practically  sold  and  belonged  to  him 


i8o  A  Man  of  Genius 

no  longer.  This  meant  that  riding  would  soon  be  a  thing 
of  the  past  for  him,  and  Thyrza  and  he  farther  apart  than 
ever.  The  sale  of  Merrylegs  was  thus  a  symbol  of  that 
estranging  power  of  mere  circumstance  that  aids  and  abets 
our  frailties  with  a  truly  diabolic  power. 

All  the  while,  with  Chrissie  singing  cheerily  in  the  room 
below,  Thyrza  lay  listening  to  the  noise  of  the  thunder, 
gathering  strength  to  act  alone,  as  she  had  never  acted 
before;  for  Chrissie's  song  seemed  to  remind  her  how 
detached  each  soul  is  from  the  one  next  to  it,  since  Chrissie 
could  sing,  with  Thyrza  facing  untold  dread. 

Yet  the  child  who  once  was  Thyrza  felt  that  she  was 
listening  to  another  song,  the  great  melody  of  love  and 
sacrifice  that  was  carrying  her  on  its  wings  to  heights  she 
had  never  dreamt  of  in  all  her  sunny  life.  For  in  her 
loving  lie  for  Ambrose  Velly's  sake,  in  the  mystery  of  birth 
that  was  coming  to  her,  her  soul  was  opening  to  the  world 
of  awe  where  dwell  the  starry  wonders  of  the  universe, 
where  are  the  laws  that  bind  Orion  and  the  Pleiades,  that 
link  the  meanest  with  the  greatest  in  the  common  reverence 
of  life.  In  shame  borne  for  the  man  she  loved,  Thyrza 
was  finding  her  soul,  learning  the  law  of  life  that  came  to 
Ambrose  as  the  fruit  of  his  brain,  and  to  Darracott  as  the 
fruit  of  sacrifice.  Thus  watching  the  Mystery  Play  of  a 
woman's  life,  she  fell  asleep,  fearless  of  the  thunder  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life.  Yet,  before  she  slept,  there  flamed 
along  her  heart  silence  the  thought  of  the  wonderful  Prayer 
OF  Women,  though  its  actual  words  she  could  only  have 
understood  with  difiiculty — 

O  Spirit  that  broods  upon  the  hills 
And  moves  upon  the  face  of  the  deep, 
And  is  heard  in  the  wind, 
Save  us  from  the  desire  of  men's  eyes, 
And  the  cruel  lust  of  them. 


i 


The  Prayer  of  Women  1 8 1 

Later  on  that  evening  Mr.  Velly  stood  at  the  entrance 
to  the  farm  of  Lower  Titchberry.  The  light  overhead  was 
livid,  and  the  stifling  air  as  hot  as  a  furnace,  while  the  u])per 
branches  of  the  tallest  elms  swayed  slightly,  bowing  before 
the  wings  of  the  coming  storm.  Dim  shadows  streaked 
with  tawny  lights  were  moving  across  the  sky. 

"Better  wait,  Velly,  till  the  storm's  blown  over,"  said  the 
farmer,  as  he  watched  his  visitor  trying  to  mount  the 
shivering  animal  from  the  heppcn-stock. 

"Quiet,  lass,  quiet,"  said  James  Velly,  as  the  terrified 
creature  quivered  at  every  rattle  of  the  storm  overhead. 

'"Tis  pretty  nigh  madness,"  repeated  the  farmer,  "to 
ride  her  in  a  storm  like  this.  Best  get  under  the  shelter  of 
a  roof." 

"  Damn  you,  stand  still,"  said  Mr.  Velly  to  the  mare,  as 
he  at  last  managed  to  swing  himself  into  the  saddle.  In 
the  dim  light  his  face  shone  white  and  set. 

As  he  turned  down  the  road  the  whole  country  was  lit 
with  a  vast  sheet  of  yellow  light,  against  which  the  houses 
stood  outlined  in  ink  for  a  second.  Far  off  on  the  coast 
the  steely  sea  yawned  in  the  black  cliff  chasms.  The 
mare  reared,  but  Velly  struck  her  a  savage  blow  that  made 
her  quiver  with  pain.  Shaking  his  head  forebodingly,  the 
master  of  Titchberry  stood  watching  the  horse  and  rider 
as  they  thundered  down  the  road,  till  there  came  the  rush 
of  a  curtain  of  rain,  and  he  went  indoors  for  shelter. 

Faster  and  faster  in  the  rattle  of  hoof-beats  James  Velly 
was  escaping  from  thought,  from  the  endless  vain  regrets 
at  the  waste  of  his  life.  On  him  was  the  sense  of  head- 
long flight  from  the  sodden  dreariness  of  these  last  weeks. 
He  shouted  again  and  again  in  the  relief  of  overcharged 
nerves,  till  the  mare,  too,  grew  beside  herself,  for  with 
starting  eyeballs  and  sweating  flanks  she  was  fleeing  from 
the  terror  of  the  opening  skies  above.     At  last  in  James 


1 82  A  Man  of  Genius 

Velly's  brain  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  joy  of  this 
headlong  rush,  so  different  from  the  sickening  despair 
with  which  he  had  again  and  again  handled  his  rabbiting 
gun. 

"Ambrose,"  cried  Mrs.  Velly,  as  her  son  came  in  drip- 
ping wet  from  Bradworthy,  "your  father's  not  home  yet. 
He  went  to  Titchberry  two  hours  ago." 

"  Well,  mother,  I  reckon  he's  waiting  till  this  downpour's 
over.  There's  nothing  to  be  alarmed  at  in  that.  I'm  wet 
to  the  skin  myself." 

He  left  his  mother  looking  out  on  the  storm  in  a  rare  fit  of 
idleness;  there  seemed  to  be  a  terrible  message,  indeed,  in 
the  black  shadows  that  filled  the  house  with  darkness. 
Suddenly  amid  the  sounds  of  the  storm,  above  the  swirl  of 
the  rain  and  the  rushing  of  the  shoots,  there  came  a  crash 
from  the  house  itself.  Then  followed  the  awe-stricken 
silence  that  falls  on  inanimate  things  after  some  great 
detonation. 

"The  house  is  struck,"  said  Ambrose,  hurrying  down 
from  his  room. 

His  first  idea  was  that  a  chimney  had  fallen,  and  he 
rushed  into  the  yard,  while  Mrs.  Velly  ran  upstairs,  where 
all  was  just  as  usual.  At  last  Ambrose  thought  of  the 
eight-day  clock  in  the  hall  that,  with  its  solemn  tick-tack, 
had  measured  out  the  moments  of  many  generations  of 
the  Velly  family.     Opening  the  panel  he  looked  inside. 

"Come  here,  mother,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  interior, 
where  the  great  pendulum  no  longer  swayed. 

"  It's  fallen,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Velly. 

Across  the  minds  of  both  flashed  the  belief  that  the 
falling  of  a  clock  weight  is  as  sure  a  sign  of  approaching 
death  as  the  beating  of  a  wild  bird  against  the  windows  of 
a  house. 

The  storm  was  travelling  further  away,  but  through  the 


The  Prayer  of  Women  183 

wash  of  falling  rain  they  began  to  distinguish  a  distant 
sound.  At  first  it  was  as  slight  as  the  rhythmic  cry  of  a 
man  under  the  influence  of  an  anaesthetic.  Then  it  became 
louder,  more  insistent;  it  was  the  noise  of  galloping  hoofs, 
and  as  it  came  nearer  they  could  distinguish  the  furious 
terror  of  the  pace. 

It  was  Clover,  the  mare  his  father  rode,  riderless  now,  as 
Ambrose  knew  she  would  be,  when  he  ran  out  of  the  house. 

"Go  and  fetch  Vinnicombe,  and  take  a  gate  off  its 
hinges,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  quietly,  as  Ambrose  led  in  the 
mare,  covered  with  foam-spots,  and  reeking  with  the  sweat 
of  intense  fear. 

"It'll  be  along  the  road  from  Titchberry,"  she  said,  as 
she  started  ofiF,  bareheaded,  in  the  rain. 

Twenty  times  before  she  reached  the  heap  of  stones 
where  lay  the  huddled  mass  she  was  expecting,  she  fancied 
the  dark  marks  on  the  road  must  be  her  husband.  At  last 
she  found  him. 

There  were  faint  bubbles  coming  from  the  nostrils,  and 
blood  was  flowing  from  a  scalp-wound.  She  feared  to 
move  him  at  first,  but  when  the  men  arrived  with  the  gate, 
they  found  her  sitting  with  his  head  on  her  lap,  the  wound 
carefully  bound  with  strips  of  petticoat. 

"He's  gone,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  sighed  twice. 
Clover  killed  him,"  she  repeated  dully,  like  one  repeating 
a  lesson. 

At  first  she  would  not  let  them  touch  the  body,  pressing 
her  strained  face  against  the  breast  of  the  dead  man.  It 
was  Caleb  who  induced  her  to  move. 

"Missus,"  he  said,  kneeling  down  by  her  side,  "he  was 
coming  home  sober." 

"Ay,  he  died  sober,"  she  said,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Thank  God,"  said  Ambrose,  putting  his  arm  round  her 
and  lifting  her  to  her  feet. 


184  A  Man  of  Genius 

The  rain  had  ceased  and  the  road  was  beginning  to 
glitter  with  the  freshness  of  a  newly-washed  surface,  the 
scent  of  the  hedges  and  fields  became  perceptible  and  the 
faint  twittering  of  birds  began  from  the  trees. 

"It's  come  too  late,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  looking  round  at 
the  peace.  "The  storm's  done  its  work.  If  he  had  but 
come  home  an  hour  later,"  she  said,  for  she  felt  at  the 
moment  but  the  regret  with  which  one  looks  at  a  broken 
dish:  '  if  only  I  had  not  put  it  at  the  edge,'  one  says. 

After  they  had  brought  him  home  and  Dr.  Dayman  had 
left,  she  sat  quietly  with  Ambrose  in  the  kitchen,  opening 
the  pocket-book  she  had  found  on  the  body. 

"So  that's  the  end,"  she  said,  passing  to  her  son  the  first 
letters  he  found,  which  was  the  one  her  husband  had  received 
from  the  landlord. 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  suppose  it  is,"  assented  Ambrose,  as  he 
read  it. 

"And  all  the  time  I  thought  'twas  but  two  years'  rent 
owing.     But  it's  too  late  now  to  think  of  blaming  him." 

"  I'll  pay  it  all  back,  mother,"  said  Ambrose,  catching  up 
the  letter.  "  Some  day  I  shall  be  well  able  to.  Nobody 
shall  lose  a  penny  by  me  or  my  father."  He  squared  his 
shoulders  with  a  new  sense  of  responsibility,  of  strength, 
even  of  freedom,  though  he  loyally  reproached  himself  for 
the  feeling. 

"You'll  be  able  to  go  away  now,  Ambrose,"  said  Mrs. 
Velly  quietly.  "Lad,  do  you  know  what  I'm  thinking  of 
to-night,  with  him  lying  upstairs?" 

"Of  him  as  he  was  years  ago,  I  expect,"  said  Ambrose 
gently. 

"I'm  thanking  God  that  James  Velly's  dead  and  Am- 
brose, his  son,  is  alive.  Ay,  James  Velly's  dead,  thaftk 
God;  but  Ambrose  is  his  resurrection.  No,  I'm  not  mad, 
I'm  not  mad,  boy.     Come  here,"  she  said,  pulling  him  down 


The  Prayer  of  Women  185 

to  the  flags  till  he  crouched  at  the  side  of  her  chair;  "  h'sten 
to  me.  The  dead  don't  die,  not  always.  They  live  in  their 
children.  James  Velly  is  alive  in  you.  Oh,  my  God,  to 
win  the  battles  he  lost — in  you.  You  must  be  strong  where 
he  was  weak,  must  stand  where  he  fell." 

"Mother,  what  is  it?" 

"  Lad,  it's  the  passion  of  a  life-time  that's  speaking.  ^ 
loved  a  strong  man,  a  man  no  slave  to  his  own  weakness, 
and  James  Velly  failed  me.  I  hated  'en  one  way  and  loved 
'en  another.  I  want  you  to  win  for  'en,  gain  for  'en,  be 
strong  for  'en.  I  loved  him  as  I  love  you;  you  and  he's  one, 
dear — one  to  me,  somehow." 

''Mother,  I  will  not  fail  you." 

"  You  must  go  and  see  the  land  agent  and  ask  him  to 
wait  for  the  rent.  It'll  take  us  years,  but  it  shall  be  done. 
His  master  can  afford  to  wait  better  than  the  others.  There'll 
have  to  be  a  sale  of  furniture  as  well  as  stock.  They'll 
find  good  old  things,  too,  that  ought  to  make  a  pretty 
penny." 

"Mother,  it's  hard  for  you,"  Ambrose  burst  out,  for  Mrs. 
Velly  had  always  been  a  houseproud  woman.  "  But  that'll 
most  likely  pay  the  other  debts  and  more." 

"There  shan't  be  a  penny  owing  to  any  one  in  the  end. 
Never  mind  for  me.  I  can  get  a  two-roomed  cottage  and 
live  on  ne.xt  to  nothing." 

Then  she  broke  down  suddenly.  "Eh,  lad,  lad,"  she 
cried;  "but  it'll  not  bring  back  the  years  of  happiness  that 
James  missed.  I  mind  the  sunny  afternoons  he'd  take  me 
driving  before  Janie  came." 

She  was  crying  the  rare,  slow  tears  of  a  strong  woman, 
bitter  like  a  man's. 

"But,"  she  said  a^  last,  "you'll  have  the  happiness  that 
didn't  last  with  him.  You'll  be  the  strong  man  he  never 
was.     And  there's  one  thing  escaped,  for  that  would  have 


1 86  A  Man  of  Genius 

been  sheer  ruin.  I  sent  Thyrza  away,  thank  God.  Now 
you'll  be  able  to  go  to  the  work  your  heart's  set  on,  free 
from  the  troubles  there  might  have  been  round  your  neck." 

As  no  man  has  ever  tracked  the  eagle's  flight  that  marks 
the  height  of  human  strength,  so  no  man  has  ever  touched 
the  bed-rock  of  human  weakness.  Fresh  vistas  of  degra- 
dation must  always  open  before  the  most  degraded,  for  at 
each  successive  fall  the  depths  below  seem  fathomless. 

Ambrose  knew  this  in  a  moment,  when  he  heard  his 
mother  say — 

"You  haven't  seen  her  since  she  left,  have  'ee,  lad?" 

He  answered,  after  a  pause — 

"No,  mother." 

To  Ambrose  human  needs  were  the  strongest  of  all 
arguments,  but  he  was  powerless  to  weigh  the  opposing 
claims  of  his  mother  and  Thyrza.  Only  to-day,  in  the 
bitterness  of  such  a  death  as  his  father's,  he  felt  that  a 
bare  denial  could  do  Thyrza  little  harm.  He  knew  him- 
self now  to  be,  like  all  living  things,  on  a  slippery  inclined 
plane,  on  which  one  rose  an  inch  or  two  to  fall  the  next 
second  many  feet.  He  just  caught  a  momentary  glimpse 
of  possibilities  of  baseness  in  himself  that  before  to-night 
he  could  never  have  imagined,  for  it  was  a  relief  to  know 
that  Darracott  was  gone  from  the  place.  Yet,  the  next 
second,  he  found  himself  thinking  that  Thyrza  would  be 
terrified  at  the  thunderstorm;  for  her  name  was  truly 
written  on  Ambrose  Velly's  heart,  though  in  the  strange 
hidden  writing  that  only  becomes  legible  in  the  heat  of  the 
fire. 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  STRONG  MAN  ARMED 

^^T    REMEMBER  so    well,"   said  Damaris  Westaway, 

1  ''how  you  used  to  tie  your  old  dressing-gown  round 
you  and  screw  yourself  up  over  your  work,  because  we 
could  only  afford  one  fire  in  the  house.  That  was  before 
the  money  came,  and  now  you  want  to  go  back  and  live 
like  that  again." 

She  was  sitting  with  her  father  in  the  study,  looking  out 
on  the  garden  in  its  spring  glories  of  daffodils  and  crocuses. 
It  was  during  the  week  that  followed  Mr.  Velly's  death. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  give  up  anything  you  value,  my 
child,"  said  Mr.  Westaway;  "yet,  for  myself,  there  is  but 
one  way  to  be  even  honest." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  did  when  the  money  came?" 
asked  Damaris.  "I  just  went  off  and  bought  what  I'd 
always  longed  for — a  silk  petticoat  and  frillies  and  silver- 
backed  brushes  and  fur  and  lace.  And  when  the  things 
came  home  I  sat  on  the  floor  and  cried  for  joy.  You  see  it 
shames  a  woman  to  be  shabby.  It  makes  her  feel  more 
degraded  than  vice." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  putting  a  hand  on 
her  head,  as  she  leant  against  the  arm  of  his  chair,  "that 
it  was  the  thought  of  how  you  would  miss  your  pretty  things 
that  troubled  me  most?  My  dear,  you  mustn't  go  with- 
out  " 

187 


1 88  A  Man  of  Genius 

"What  my  soul  loveth,  neither  of  savoury  meat,  nor  of 
finery,"  she  laughed;  "yet,  father,  there  are  things  that  even 
a  woman  values  more  than  show  and  dress.  I  value  your 
peace  of  mind,  your  honesty,  more  than  delicate  lace  and 
silk,  father.  Even  I  do  that.  For  I  understand  quite  well 
how  you  think  it  not  common  honesty  to  get  money  out  of 
those  who  toil  for  you,  who  give  them  nothing  that  has  cost 
you  a  single  effort  and  a  single  thought.  For  the  capital 
you  never  gained;  it  was  the  merest  chance  of  relationship 
that  put  such  a  weapon  in  your  hand  against  the  workers 
who  must  have  the  use  of  it  or  they  die.  Oh,  Fm  like  most 
women,  I  hate  socialism;  it's  uncomfortable,  like  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount.  Only  I've  enough  imagination  to  see  that 
when  it's  got  into  your  very  bones,  there's  no  escape  from 
it." 

"But  it  is  you,  after  all,  who  will  have  the  greater  part 
of  the  discomfort." 

"Oh,  that's  always  the  case  with  men's  little  ways,  and 
there's  no  denying  that  show  means  more  to  us  women  than 
to  men.  By  nature,  a  woman  is  timid.  She  feels  herself 
weak  against  the  masterfulness  of  man,  for  he  has  such 
strong  nerves,  such  a  steady  frame.  But  put  her  in  good 
clothes  and  she  has  a  weapon  of  confidence  at  once.  The 
light  will  come  back  to  her  eyes  and  the  spring  to  her  walk 
and  she'll  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  the  next  overbearing  man 
she  meets — and  master  him." 

"A  glass  of  wine  or  a  dinner  does  that  for  a  man,"  said 
Mr.  Westaway,  with  a  smile.  "He,  as  Ambrose  would  say, 
'bucks  up.'" 

"Father,  are  you  going  to  do  anything  for  him?"  asked 
Damaris,  eagerly.  "Surely  now  is  the  time  to  do  it,  now 
that  he  is  free  to  get  away." 

"Fm  going  to  pay  a  premium  to  put  him  in  a  good 
office,  and  to  get  him  a  good  position  in  it,  too.     A  country 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  189 

office,  I  think;  for  I  don't  want  his  originality  swami)cd  at 
once  with  the  example  or  the  overtaught  opinions  of  much 
older  men." 

"To  do  things  like  that,"  said  Damaris,  with  shining 
eyes,  "  I'd  dress  in  sackcloth  ever  more.  And  I  often  think, 
when  I  rustle  about  in  my  grand  clothes,  that  they  put  a 
bar  between  me  and  the  real  people," 

She  was  thinking  tenderly  of  the  weak  things  of  the 
world,  more  especially  of  a  little  illegitimate  child  whom 
she  had  come  across  in  a  hospital.  His  father,  another 
Ambrose,  more  careful  of  his  chance-born  brat  than  is 
customary,  used  to  come  to  the  ward  to  see  the  child. 
One  day  the  boy  in  the  next  bed  was  heard  to  say,  "Oh, 
he's  got  no  father,  he's  only  got  an  Ambrose." 

If  her  father's  wealth  was  to  go  to  the  poor  folks,  who 
have  "only  an  Ambrose,"  she  was  well  content  to  go  with- 
out silk  and  lace.  This,  indeed,  she  understood  far  better 
than  the  abstract  dogmas  of  comparative  theology. 

Air.  Westaway  watched  his  daughter  with  a  comfort  in 
her  growing  sympathy,  yet  with  a  half-dread  of  her  youth- 
ful impetuosity.  For,  he  knew,  with  a  half-smile,  that  she 
would,  if  she  adopted  his  ideas,  want  to  hurl  him  into 
action  before  he  had  half  weighed  the  pros  and  cons  of 
it.  Indeed,  Mr.  Westaway,  notwithstanding  his  boldness 
in  the  world  of  ideas,  had  all  the  habitual  dislike  of  the 
old  man  to  hurried  action;  there  were  days,  in  fact,  when, 
as  Damaris  said,  he  would  hesitate  about  walking  down  the 
garden  path  for  fear  of  treading  on  a  worm. 

"But  how,"  asked  Damaris,  "even  if  one  thinks  as  you 
do,  that  one  must  spend  nothing  on  oneself  beyond  bare 
necessaries,  can  one  detach  oneself  sufficiently  from  the 
whirring  wheel  in  which  we  are  all  caught?  How  can  we 
go  counter  to  the  whole  world?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  coming  in  and  throwing  him- 


190  A  Man  of  Genius 

self  into  a  chair,  "that's  just  what  I  should  like  to  know. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  money?" 

*'  I  propose  to  hand  over  the  bulk  of  my  capital  to  endow 
and  support  a  novel  kind  of  hospital." 

"Faugh,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  call  it  hospital,  for  want  of  a  better 
name.  It  will  be  an  institution,  set  up  in  one  of  the  most 
densely  populated  parts  of  London,  to  minister  to  the 
wants  of  women  and  children  during  the  first  two  years 
of  the  child's  life.  It  will  teach  the  mothers,  as  well  as 
give  medicine,  food,  and  nursing;  for  there  will  be  a 
trained  staff,  who  will  supplement  the  work  of  the  Mater- 
nity Hospital,  from  which  the  mothers  are  turned  out 
long  before  they  are  ready  to  struggle  again  with  life.  I 
hope  it  will  be  the  forerunner  of  many  such  institutions, 
for  it  is  the  great  way  in  which  the  municipalities  can  help 
the  future  generations." 

Mr.  Westaway's  eyes  glowed  with  the  supreme  bliss  of 
the  creator,  for  the  scheme  was  the  one  thing  that  had 
given  him  courage  to  persist  in  the  face  of  clerical  gossip 
in  a  course  of  action  which  had  come  like  a  cataclysm 
into  his  quiet  life. 

"Father,"  asked  Damaris,  "what  in  the  world  has  stirred 
you  up  like  this?" 

"Ay,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  "that's  just  what  I  want  to 
know." 

"You  ought  to  know.  Dayman,"  said  the  Vicar  quietly. 

"Confound  it  all,  who  am  I  to  see  flies  through  a  brick 
wall?  I  tell  you,  you're  a  stranger  to  me.  You  were  once 
a  decent,  silk-hatted,  no,  clerical-hatted  citizen,  and  now, 
though  you  look  the  same " 

"No,  he  doesn't,"  laughed  Damaris;  "for  his  hair  stands 
up  straighter." 

"Yet  you  have  the  key  in  your  hand,  doctor,"  said  Mr. 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  191 

Westaway;  ** don't  you  remember  telling  me  that  I  wasn't  a 
very  long-lived  man?  There's  some  heart-weakness, 
Damaris." 

"  Oh,  my  father,"  she  cried,  kneeling  suddenly  by  his  side. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing  of  immediate  importance,  my  dear. 
But  I've  always  wanted  to  feel  that  I  had  given  something, 
done  something,  that  had  cost  me  effort  and  struggle.  One 
puts  ofif  everything  when  one  fancies  there's  a  long  time  to 
do  it  in.  And  now,  if  the  time's  shortening,  I  want  to  see 
the  thing  done.  I've  always  felt  that  for  me  to  show  a 
little  charity  and  preach  a  few  sermons  meant  nothing.  It 
was  easier  than  doing  wTong,  in  fact.  Now  I  want  to  do 
a  good  hard  thing,  something  that  I've  to  set  my  jaws 
hard  over." 

"Damn!"  bellowed  the  doctor.  "I  feel  like  a  dying 
chorister.  No  more  to  be  trusted  with  a  parish,  or  a 
daughter,  or  an  income,  than  a  monkey  with  a  Maxim  gun." 

But  Damaris  paid  no  attention. 

"Father,"  she  exclaimed,  "let  me  help.  I'll  keep  house 
on  next  to  nothing,  if  you'll  only  let  me  go  and  help  weigh 
the  babies.  They  would  be  weighed,  wouldn't  they,  Dr. 
Dayman?" 

Both  men  laughed,  for  Damaris  would  have  cheerfully 
upset  every  one  for  a  baby's  comfort  any  day. 

"I  shan't  be  able  to  live  in  town,  Damaris,"  said  Mr. 
Westaway,  "and  as  Beckland  hasn't  found  a  tenant,  I 
thought  of  removing  there." 

"Beckland!"  exclaimed  Damaris,  thinking  with  dismay 
of  the  desolate,  half-ruined  coast  farmhouse,  long  unin- 
habited and  far  off  the  main  roads.  It  was  her  first  taste 
of  the  reality  of  the  change  that  was  coming  into  her  life, 
and  for  a  moment,  to  her  own  chagrin,  she  found  it  an 
effort  to  choke  back  childish  tears.  But  her  father  never 
noticed  in  his  absorption. 


192  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Will  you  help  me,  Dayman?"  he  asked.  "I  want  you 
and  Damaris  to  be  the  executors  after  I'm  gone.  Somehow 
there  seem  to  be  strangely  detached  human  beings  without 
tentacles,  who  fasten  themselves  to  no  one,  and  you  are  the 
only  man  I  could  ask  to  do  it.  Damaris  will  weigh  the 
babies  and  bring  the  love,  you'll  supply  the  business  side." 

"And  the  other  day,"  said  the  doctor,  evading  the 
question,  "you  were  talking  about  the  discipline  of  suffer- 
ing. Now  here  you  are  trying  to  take  the  discipline  away 
from  a  lot  of  poor  wretches." 

Dr.  Dayman  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  part  of  devil's 
advocate. 

"It's  only  what  you  have  been  doing  all  your  life,"  said 
Damaris. 

"I'm  paid  for  it,"  snapped  the  doctor.  "But  if  suffer- 
ing, is  the  best  discipline  for  the  character,  what's  the  good 
of  trying  to  bring  about  the  Millennium?  For,  if  you 
remove  want,  banish  pain,  and  improve  people  up  to  such 
a  standard  that  they  all  rush  to  bear  each  other's  burdens, 
what  becomes  of  the  training  of  the  character?  I  say  that 
the  man  who  gives  his  fellows  a  deuced  bad  time  of  it  is  a 
benefactor  of  the  species,  and  your  philanthropist  or  your 
man  of  science  is  the  devil  in  sheep's  clothing.  Take 
anaesthetics  now;  what  a  lot  of  discipline  a  man  misses  who 
has  his  leg  off  without  chloroform.  And  what  a  pity  to 
deprive  a  man  of  the  spiritual  help  he  would  gain  by  going 
through  life  with  the  cross  of  a  crooked  back.  These  wor- 
shippers of  pain  and  weakness,  in  stole  and  alb,  that  you're 
turning  your  back  on,    Westaway,  are  the  true  thinkers." 

"But,"  said  Damaris,  "surely  both  churchmen  and 
scientists  aim  at  reforming  the  world,  only  not  in  the  same 
way  ?  I  don't  see  that  the  thinking  of  one  is  any  straighter 
than  that  of  the  other." 

"Ay,"  said  Dr.  Dayman  with  a  sneer;    "they're  every 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  193 

man-jack  of  'em  bent  on  reform,  one  with  wry-necked 
saints  and  dried-up  virgins,  and  t'other  with  germ-theories, 
steriHsation  and  eugenics.  But  neither,  thank  heaven,  has 
the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  accomplishing  it,  as  long  as  human 
nature  is  made  of  what  it  is." 

"What's  that?"  said  Damaris,  who  loved  to  spur  the 
doctor  to  a  rampage  at  things  in  general. 

"Of  the  lust  of  the  flesh  for  bed-rock  and  the  pride 
of  life  for  top-dressing.  Now  I  ask  you,  as  a  reasonable 
woman,  can  antiseptic  gloves  or  church  millinery  affect 
either  of  these?" 

"They  can  modify  them,  for  we're  certainly  different 
from  primitive  man,  Dayman,"  said  Mr.  Westaway. 

"There's  not  a  tittle  of  evidence  to  prove  that  we're  better 
in  brains  or  morals  than  the  so-called  savages.  The  high- 
water  mark  reached  ages  ago  has  never  been  surpassed  or 
even  equalled  in  the  last  three  centuries  of  history.  No, 
no;  the  true  symbol  of  man  is  the  serpent  with  his  tail  in 
his  mouth.  Round  and  round  we  go.  That's  the  true 
vicious  circle.  From  the  highest  we  fall  to  lower  and 
lower,  and  then  up  again.  We're  getting  to  the  lowest 
now.  In  fact,  I  think  we're  starting  up  again  once  more 
in  the  old  way,  for  it's  monkey-tricks  that  the  decadents 
are,  the  true  arboreals  leaping  from  branch  to  branch  of  the 
rotten  upas  of  the  city.  We've  two  things  yet  to  learn,  to 
remove  human  waste  decorously,  and  to  prevent  the  repro- 
duction of  the  unfit.  Then  we  can  go  on,  merrily  breeding 
a  race  of  contented  hogs,  fattening  'em  in  graduated  tem- 
peratures on  patent  foods,  and  removing  their  carcasses  by 
scientific  machinery.  And  it's  the  happiest  time  ever 
known  on  earth,"  said  the  doctor,  describing  a  sudden 
volte-face,  "and  will  be  happier  yet.  For  contented  hogs 
are  a  damned  sight  better  than  discontented  satyrs  like  the 
artists  we  once  had." 
13 


194  A  Man  of  Genius 

"And  so,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  "we  shall  soon  have  no 
discipline  of  suffering?" 

"Not  if  you  and  your  like  have  their  will,"  said  the 
doctor,  "and  drive  wise  people  like  myself  on  the  mad 
race  of  the  contented  swine." 

"There  would  still,"  said  Damaris  quietly,  "be  the  most 
refined  suffering  possible,  the  rebellion  against  the  laws 
of  the  sty,  the  disgust  at  the  hog  state." 

"Ay,  you're  right,"  said  Dr.  Dayman;  "that's  where 
Shaw  diatribes  come  from,  and  why  people  listen  to  'em." 

"But,"  said  Damaris,  "I  deny  your  original  hypothesis. 
They're  there,  it's  true,  the  lust  of  the  flesh  and  the  pride 
of  life,  but  they  are  there  only  that  we  may  learn  to  choose 
those  other  things  that  are  more  excellent — sacrificing  love, 
high  enthusiasm,  noble  effort.  Under  these  we  can  trample 
the  pride  of  life  and  the  lust  of  the  flesh.  And  so,  father," 
she  said,  getting  up  and  turning  to  Mr.  Westaway,  "to- 
morrow I'm  going  to  walk  over  to  Beckland,  for  that  will  be 
a  trampling  on  the  pride  of  life  for  me.  And  I  shall  ask 
Ambrose  Velly  to  come  with  me,  so  that  I  can  tell  him 
what  you're  planning  for  him,  if  I  may." 

"And,"  said  Dr.  Dayman  to  himself,  as  she  left  the 
room,  "though  she  talks  like  a  book,  she  knows  no  more 
of  life  than — her  father.  But  she's  a  fine  creature,  is 
Princess  Damaris." 

Then  he  turned  to  discuss  the  business  arrangements  of 
the  future  with  Mr.  Westaway,  for  he  was  determined  that 
a  suitable  income  should  be  settled  on  Damaris  before  Mr. 
Westaway  began  to  play  ducks  and  drakes  with  his  capital. 

As  Ambrose  and  Damaris  stood  outside  the  long,  two*- 
storeyed,  slate-roofed  house  at  Beckland  on  the  afternoon 
of  the  following  day,  it  seemed  to  the  girl  exactly  the  place 
for  a  dreary  experiment.  In  truth,  she  was  not  without  a 
feminine  joy  in  martyrdom  as  she  contemplated  the  tangle 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  195 

of  wild  angelica,  the  "billery  trade"  of  the  North  Devon 
hedger  that  tilled  the  garden.  The  cold  light  from  a 
cloudy  spring  sky  gleamed  on  the  leaden  surfaces  of  the 
window-panes  that  faintly  revealed  the  bareness  of  the 
whitewashed  walls  and  stone-flagged  floors  within.  A  strip 
of  sea  lay  beyond  the  headland  of  Wimbury,  on  which  the 
circular  remains  of  a  pre-historic  village  could  still  be 
traced.  Dense  woodland  tilled  the  combe  to  the  right, 
and  two  tall  sycamore  trees  partly  cut  off  the  view  from  the 
sea.  The  wind  was  playing  in  a  rattling  chimney-pot  as 
they  brushed  the  rank  growths  of  the  garden  with  their  feet, 
and  over  the  front  door  the  snails  had  wound  a  shiny 
pattern.  Behind  the  house  was  a  semi-circular  dovecote, 
from  which  wild  pigeons  peeped  through  the  holes  that 
pierced  the  cob-walls  like  the  portholes  of  a  ship.  Beyond 
this  was  a  wilderness  of  barns,  with  the  thatch  tumbling 
inward  in  patches  of  moss-grown  rottenness.  The  beams 
of  these  ancient  structures  stuck  out  from  the  yellow  cob 
like  black  bones  out  of  aged  flesh.  Two  cottages,  from 
one  of  which  rose  a  thin  line  of  blue-grey  smoke,  stood 
close  by  a  scummy  duck  pond. 

''Let's  go  and  see  if  they'll  let  us  sit  by  their  fire  a  bit," 
said  Ambrose,  thinking  his  companion  looked  wan  and 
tired. 

"  You're  kindly  welcome,"  said  the  old  man  who  answered 
their  knock.  "  'Tisn't  a  many  folks  that  come  down  along 
this  way." 

In  a  moment  they  were  sitting  by  a  cheerful  blaze  and 
looking  through  the  deep-set  window  at  the  sea.  The 
dressers  were  loaded  with  china,  and  the  walls  had  blos- 
somed out  into  a  wilderness  of  funeral  cards  and  worked 
samplers,  recording  the  dates  of  the  deaths  and  births  of 
relatives. 

"  Iss,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  chirpily  round  at  his 


196  A  Man  of  Genius 

comfortable  mausoleum,  "  there's  nobody  lived  to  Beckland 
since  my  Sal  died,  and  I  give  up  living  in  the  old  place  to 
come  to  this  here  cottage.  'Tis  cosier-like  than  that  ugly 
barn."  He  jerked  a  contemptuous  thumb  towards  the  farm. 
"  'Tis  a  poor,  little,  small  sort  of  place,  but  my  Sal  made  a 
braave  lot  of  money  out  of  it." 

*'How  did  she  do  that?"  asked  Damaris. 

Old  Josh  Grylls  had  a  voice  that  whistled  in  his  throat 
like  the  sound  of  a  wind  that  has  gone  astray  for  centuries 
in  an  ancient  chimney. 

"  Lord-a-mussy,  my  dear,  her  had  a  saving  soul,"  said  he, 
"and  never  lost  a  tooth,  nor  missed  a  market-day  till  her 
laid  up  four  year  agone  with  brown-titus  and  went  off 
sudden.  A  wonderful  good  manager  was  Sally.  Us  never 
seed  a  fresh  egg  nor  a  sound  cabbage  upon  table  if  her 
could  find  a  stale  one." 

"And  my  father,"  said  Damaris  as  they  turned  away 
from  Beckland,  "  is  going  to  live  in  the  same  house  as  that 
old  skinflint." 

"He'll  drive  out  the  spirit  of  old  Sally,"  said  Ambrose, 
"if  ever  any  man  could." 

On  the  way  out  Damaris  had  told  him  of  what  her  father 
proposed  to  do  to  help  him,  and  in  the  first  elation  of  the 
prospect  opening  before  him,  not  even  Beckland  could 
depress  Ambrose.     Yet,  as  he  looked  back,  he  said — 

"I  do  wish  you  weren't  going  there.  It  isn't  the  right 
shell  for  you,  somehow." 

"  Yet  don't  blame  my  father.  For  I  feel  with  him,  that 
a  man  must  live  out  the  faith  that  is  in  him  if  he  is  to  be 
a  man  at  all.  And  as  for  women,  I  suppose  their  cravings 
seldom  reach  a  height  where  they  could  be  called  faiths. 
At  any  rate,  mine  don't  yet.     So  don't  blame  him." 

It  was  such  a  relief  to  feel  the  comrade  in  Ambrose  that 
she  spoke  out  all  her  thoughts,  without  pausing  to  discuss 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  197 

the  question  of  that  discretion  of  which  the  Enghsh-woman 
is  usually  so  careful  that  she  has  made  herself  the  most 
inane  talker  in  Europe. 

*'  I  couldn't  blame  him,  after  what  you've  told  me  to-day. 
Oh,  if  only  I  could  make  you  see  how  it  has  opened  the 
future  for  me!  But  I  can't.  I've  dreamt  and  dreamt  and 
seen  visions  for  so  many  years." 

Damaris  watched  him  as  he  walked  by  her  side,  all  the 
swing  of  excitement  in  his  gait  and  the  light  of  the  future 
shining  in  his  face.  Visions  and  dreams  amid  all  the  sordid 
realities  of  Long  Furlong,  she  thought — what  an  idealist  he 
must  be!  Yet  she  knew  that  Mr.  Westaway  chiefly  valued 
him  for  a  certain  satiric  capacity  for  mocking  false  pre- 
tensions. 

"  But  the  visions  aren't  real  to  me  yet,"  he  said  suddenly, 
whirling  her  off  with  youth's  egotism  into  the  centre  of  his 
own  problems. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Damaris. 

*'  Why,  this.  When  you  look  out  at  the  cliffs  before  the 
sun's  high,  you  know  how  the  shadows,  solid  shadows,  fill 
the  ravines,  don't  you?  How  the  light  flashes  full  into  the 
upper  halves  of  the  chasms?" 

"  Yes." 

''Well,  it's  solid,  it  casts  shadows,  it  catches  the  sunlight. 
That's  the  way  I  must  see  the  things  I  want  to  plan.  I 
want  'em  solid.  I  want  to  know  how  they  look  in  the 
evening,  when  the  shadows  lengthen,  how  they  look  when 
the  first  light  catches  them.  That's  what  I  want.  When 
I  can  do  that,  I  shall  be  ready  to  begin." 

"Yet  are  you  sure?  Because  what  you  see  might  be  as 
clear  to  you  as  Hartland  Lighthouse,  and  yet  it  might  be 
as  mean  as  a  squalid  row  of  tenement  houses.  You  must 
remember  that  we're  a  great  nation;  we're  populous,  rich, 
and  healthier  and  cleaner  than  any  nation  has  ever  been. 


198  A  Man  of  Genius 

Yet  we  can't  give  you  a  church  or  a  statue  chat  any  sane 
person  would  want  to  sit  in  front  of  for  half  an  hour.  We're 
neat,  clean,  sanitary  and  policemanised.  We've  main  drains 
and  water  systems,  and  yet  all  our  schools  cannot  give  us 
an  inspired  fiend  like  Cellini." 

Ambrose  had  never  even  heard  the  name  of  the  great 
goldsmith;  but,  although  facts  were  often  strange  to  him, 
ideas  were  not. 

"  It's  too  comfortable,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  that's  how 
it  is.  It's  like  a  prison  cell,  all  soapy  and  stuffy,  this  life 
of  towns  to-day.  And  people  like  it,  and  so  they  don't 
want  to  escape.  That's  what  it  is,  to  make  beauty  is  to 
escape." 

"Out  from  the  prison  of  the  actual,"  said  Damaris,  com- 
pleting his  thought,  like  an  echo  that  caught  a  clumsy 
bellow  to  bring  it  back  in  sweetness,  while  he  watched  her 
face  in  half  adoring  fashion.  For  only  with  her  had  Ambrose 
ever  known  the  delicate  perception  of  a  cultivated  woman. 
"  Yes,"  she  continued,  "  it's  true  that  we  have  main  drains 
and  water  systems,  but  there  are  two  things  we  haven't  got; 
we  have  neither  a  gutter  nor  an  empyrean,  and  to  have 
great  art  you  must  have  both,  for  it  is  from  contrast  that 
the  visions  of  beauty  come.  In  the  very  sting  of  his  suffer- 
ing and  degradation  a  man  sees  a  glory,  beautiful  as  his 
dreams,  rising  like  a  fair  white  lily  out  of  corruption. 
That's  art;  a  way  of  escape,  a  widening  horizon,  an  uplift. 
For  art  is  freedom,  the  breadth  of  the  far-off  mountains 
seen  from  the  smoke  of  hell  sometimes,  and  not  from  a 
sanitary  prison  cell." 

"But  that  means  suffering,"  said  Ambrose,  with  the  fire 
of  excitement  crimsoning  his  face. 

"Then  one  must  suffer,"  said  Damaris  quietly.  " Some- 
times, perhaps  when  I  have  suffered,  I  shall  try,  too,  to 
make  a  thing — in  words." 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  199 

A  sudden  sense  of  kinship  leapt  from  one  to  the  other, 
of  loving  service  of  the  same  ideal,  the  one  tie  on  earth 
that  has  no  regret  coupled  with  it — a  bond,  indeed,  that 
would  not  ill-fit  the  celestial  hosts. 

"You  know,"  said  Ambrose,  after  a  silence  full  of  the 
interchange  of  sympathy,  "how  I  used  to  worry  over  the 
S)Tnbols  in  architecture.  I  know  now  there  are  no  symbols, 
for  'tis  all  one  great  symbol.  Like  music,  it's  the  symbol  of 
a  man's  mind.  Look,"  he  said,  speaking  so  hurriedly  that 
the  words  tripped  each  other  up,  "in  painting,  however 
much  you  disguise  it,  you  copy.  So  in  sculpture.  But 
when  you  build  in  sounds,  or  in  stone,  it's  a  new  thing, 
yours,  never  seen  anywhere  till  you  saw  it  in  yourself. 
It's  the  symbol  of  you,  the  music  or  the  palace  or  the 
church." 

"Or  the  dungeon,"  laughed  Damaris.  As  they  passed 
in  the  dusk  into  the  shadow  of  the  street,  she  put  her 
hand  for  a  moment,  unperceived  by  him,  on  his  arm.  For 
here,  she  believed,  was  a  man  who  would  one  day  be  of 
those  who  give  some  new  human  vision  to  their  race.  It 
was  a  fatal  moment  for  Damaris,  since  a  man's  mental 
attraction  would  be  the  predominant  force  with  her.  She 
was  no  lyre  for  passion's  fingers  to  play  what  tune  the 
flame-winged  god  might  choose,  and  for  her  to  feel  admira- 
tion for  a  man's  spiritual  qualities  was  to  cross  the  Rubicon. 

Ambrose  left  her  at  the  Vicarage  door,  where  she  was 
told  that  a  man  was  waiting  to  speak  to  her.  Opening  the 
door  of  the  little  waiting-room  that  was  used  for  parish 
visitors,  Damaris  saw  John  Darracott  rise. 

"Wasn't  it  my  father,"  she  asked  in  surprise,  "that  you 
wanted  to  see?" 

"Nay,  ma'am,  I  thought  a  woman  would  help  a  woman 
best.  That's  why  I've  come  to  you.  And  if  I've  done 
wrong,  you'll  please  to  tell  me.     Only  I've  heard  again 


200  A  Man  of  Genius 

and  again  that  there's  many  and  many  a  girl  you've  been 
good  to." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Damaris,  laying  aside  her  furs  and  sitting 
down  by  John.  As  she  did  so,  she  recognised  him  as  the 
labourer  about  whom  there  had  been  all  the  gossip  at 
the  Quay. 

"It  isn't  easy  to  say  it,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "but  I've 
come  back  to  Hartland,  when  I  ought  to  ha'  left,  because 
I  couldn't  abide  to  think  of  the  cheeld  not  knowing  where 
to  turn  to." 

"Who  is  it  you  mean?"  asked  Damaris,  who  knew  very 
well  the  difficulty  the  uneducated  find  in  stripping  a  story 
of  its  unessentials. 

But  he  was  not  listening  to  her  at  all,  as  she  saw,  in  the 
absorption  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  'Twas  the  very  beginning  of  my  trouble  down  to  Quay," 
he  said,  never  noticing  that  he  was  telling  his  own  story 
too,  "for  I  followed  Thyrza  Braund  home  that  night,  and 
there  I  seed  her  dancing  like  a  woman  bewitched  to  the 
sound  of  a  fiddle." 

"Whose?"  asked  Damaris  sharply. 

"  Ambrose  Velly  was  playing  and  she  dancing.  I  had  no 
thoughts  for  aught  but  that,  and  so  I  never  was  on  watch 
that  night,  the  night  of  the  wreck." 

"  Darracott,"  said  Damaris,  pushing  her  chair  back  into 
the  shadow,  "  are  you  in  your  senses  ?  You  cannot  know 
what  you're  saying." 

"  Ay,  I  know.  'Tis  the  bare  truth.  I  warned  'en  of  what 
it  would  lead  to,  and  now  'tis  come  to  what  I  said.  The 
day  his  father  died,  he  met  her  secret-like  over  to  Brad- 
worthy,  where  she's  biding.  I  was  in  the  field,  and  I  saw 
her  hold  'en  same  as  a  woman  holds  a  man  when  she's  his, 
his  thing,  to  do  what  he  will  with." 

Damaris  got  up  and  turned  away.    Was  it  true  ?    It  must 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  201 

surely  be  some  mad  dream  from  which  she  would  soon 
awake.  But  nothing  came  save  the  man's  heavy  breathing, 
that  irritated  her  beyond  endurance. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  a  maid  appeared  with  a  lamp. 
The  homely  everyday  came  with  her. 

"Darracott,"  said  Damaris,  "  I  feel  sure  youVe  making  a 
great  mistake  somewhere.  Ambrose  Velly  is  too  honour- 
able to  make  love  to  a  girl  like  that." 

"  I  seed  'em  together  in  Bradworthy  woods,  and  I  say 
shame's  threatening  her.  Else  why  don't  he  meet  her  open, 
and  let  all  the  world  know?" 

"  You're  a  good  friend  to  her,"  said  Damaris,  looking  at 
the  man  curiously. 

"Ay,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I'd  bear  a  deal  to  see  her  happy. 
She's  not  made  for  rough  work,  Thyrza  isn't.  I  love  her 
dearly,  and  she's  but  a  cheeld.  And  when  you'm  young 
like  she  is,  there's  naught  to  tell  'ee  the  way  the  sweetness 
ends.  Ah,  can't  'ee  help?  Go  and  see  her,  talk  to  her, 
as  only  a  woman  can.  I'm  taking  a  liberty  to  ask,  but 
there's  nobody  else  for  me  to  go  to.  I  thought  of  the 
woman  she's  staying  with,  but  for  aught  I  know  I  might 
be  taking  the  roof  off  the  maid's  head  by  going  to  work 
that  way." 

Damaris  could  not  refuse  to  believe  in  the  girl's  danger, 
or,  at  any  rate,  in  Darracott's  belief  in  it. 

*'  She  shall  have  all  the  help  I  can  give,"  she  said.  "  What 
I  can  do,  I  will.  I  will  see  her  as  soon  as  possible,  though 
I  feel  like  a  spy  on  an  honest  man." 

"He's  only  a  lad,too,"  said  Darracott,  "with  a  lad's  hot 
blood  that's  neither  to  hold  nor  to  bind.  'Tis  the  woman 
only  that  can  save  herself,  not  all  the  angels  in  heaven  can 
do  it  for  her,  for  they  don't  know  what  a  maid's  tenderness 
is  to  a  man's  fire." 

Damaris  stood  white  and  trembling  while  the  new  world 


202  A  Man  of  Genius 

of  passion  opened  before  her,  as  though  through  the  soHd 
flooring  under  her  feet  a  panel  had  been  opened  to  show 
the  subterranean  fires.  For  it  was  the  first  time  she  had 
faced  in  her  own  fife  that  underworld,  at  which  sheltered 
women  glance  askance,  even  many  of  those  who  play  at 
the  rescue  of  the  submerged.  For  no  mere  brain  know- 
ledge of  facts  touches  a  woman's  real  nature;  she  knows 
nothing  till  she  has  proved  it  on  her  own  heart-strings. 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  she  said  at  last.  "Ambrose  Velly 
is  a  man  of  perfect  honour,  a  man  who  thinks  of  nothing 
but  his  work.  Yet,  to  remove  this  accusation  from  him,  I 
will  see  the  girl.     It  is  work  that  I  can  do  better  than  you." 

"She's  as  dear  to  me  as  my  heart's  blood,"  said  John, 
"but  'tis  o'er-delicate  work  for  a  man's  hand,  the  likes  o' 
that." 

For  a  moment  the  man  himself  interested  Damaris, 
since  the  first  sounds  of  her  own  agony  were  but  hammer- 
ing far  off  on  the  doors  of  her  heart.  Nevertheless,  under 
all  the  brave  cheer  she  made  to  herself,  Damaris  knew 
there  was  a  substratum  of  truth  in  his  story.  Yet  she  rose 
to  the  challenge  of  the  man's  nobility,  in  the  splendid  assur- 
ance that  to  the  goodness  of  goodwill  nothing  is  impossible, 
for  human  power  is  stronger  than  all  pain. 

When  the  tiniest  cog-wheel  snaps  in  a  power  machine, 
no  engineer  is  needed  to  predict  that  the  whole  will  be 
thrown  out  of  gear.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  the  machine 
called  humanity  should  racket  so  lumberingly  to  its  aim, 
when  the  minute  cogs  on  which  the  great  wheels  turn  are 
so  constantly  disorganised.  The  fact  that  one  can  say  of 
the  race,  and  still  it  moves,  is  proof  enough  of  the  miraculous 
foundation  of  our  life.  So  the  cog  of  Darracott's  simple 
fidelity  caught  the  great  wheel  of  Damaris  Westaway's 
idealism,  and  whirled  it  forward  to  heights  it  could  never 
have  gained  alone. 


A  Strong  Man  Armed  203 

"I  will  do  all  that  can  be  done  for  the  woman  you  love," 
she  said  quietly. 

He  knew  that  she  meant  it,  but  as  he  left  the  Vicarage  he 
felt  suddenly  old  and  tired.  As  long  as  there  was  some- 
thing he  could  do,  the  world  was  full  of  Thyrza's  need.  But 
now  it  was  empty;  for  to  Darracott,  in  all  the  wonders 
beneath  the  star-strewn  sky,  there  were  but  two  things — a 
wreck-strewn  coast  and  a  woman  needing  help.  Even  these 
were  almost  memories  now.  Yet  in  every  memory  there  is 
contained  a  prophecy. 

Left  alone,  Damaris  sat  screwing  the  heel  of  her  shoe 
round  and  round  on  a  piece  of  grit  on  the  floor,  while  the 
day's  events  passed  before  her  mind.  Her  own  words 
came  mockingly  back  to  her — the  gutter  and  the  empyrean. 
She  laughed  as  she  recalled  the  glib  eloquence  of  ignorance; 
for  here  were  both  exemplified,  not  in  a  Cellini  of  Renais- 
sance Italy,  but  in  a  man  of  Devon  of  to-day.  It  was  the 
picture  suggested  by  Darracott's  words,  "  as  a  woman  holds 
a  man  when  she's  his,"  that  came  uppermost  now.  The 
values  of  life  changed  completely  for  Damaris  in  that 
vision  of  a  mingled  shame  and  glory  that  she  had  never 
known;  for  by  such  a  woman,  the  world  of  passion  is 
never  realised  till  it  comes  like  a  strong  man  armed,  an 
invading  host. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  BITTER  CHALICE 

ALTHOUGH  Damaris  Westaway  had  tried  hard  to  free 
her  mind  of  all  injustice,  yet  the  picture  called  up 
by  Darracott's  words  perpetually  recurred  to  her,  as  she 
faced  Thyrza  Braund  across  the  tea-table  of  the  inn  sitting- 
room  at  Bradworthy.  A  momentary  act,  it  was  yet  con- 
tinually before  her,  increasing  its  cruel  effect  by  its  per- 
sistence and,  like  an  instantaneous  photograph  of  a  leap- 
ing horse,  vivid  with  poses  never  seen  by  the  spectator's 
eye. 

''Thyrza,"  she  said  at  last,  breaking  the  silence  that  had 
fallen  between  them,  ''I  came  over  to-day  really  to  see 
you,  for  there  is  something  I  must  say  to  you." 

''What  can  there  be  for  you  to  say?"  whispered  Thyrza, 
her  breath  failing  her.  "I  wondered  why  you  came  over 
like  this,  and  so  did  Chrissie.  Her  very  last  words,  as  I 
came  over  here,  were,  'There's  something  in  the  wind. 
What  to  goodness  have  'ee  been  up  to,  cheeld?'" 

"Chrissie  is  a  wise  woman,"  said  Damaris,  with  a  smile. 
"Do  you  remember,  Thyrza,  that  morning  when  we  met  at 
Shipload  Bay,  after  you'd  been  bathing?" 

Th)rrza  nodded,  her  eyes  wide  open  with  fear  of  what 
was  coming. 

"Do  you  remember  that  we  said  there  was  a  third  kind 
of  love  that  leads  upwards,  and  the  child  of  it  is  a  great 
deed?" 

204 


The  Bitter  Chalice  205 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Thyrza,  "What  have  'ee  come  to  me 
about?" 

"I  think,  perhaps,  that  it  is  you,  ThyTza,  who  will  be 
asked  to  do  the  great  deed — to  give  up  the  man  you  love." 

"What  do  'ee  mean?     Speak  plain,  can't  you?" 

"You  were  seen  in  the  woods  with  Ambrose  Velly  the 
other  day." 

"And  what  if  I  was?  He's  my  lover!  And  what  shame 
is  there  in  that,  I  should  like  to  know?  He  it  was  I  meant 
at  Shipload  Bay." 

"Ah,  if  I  had  only  known!"  said  Damaris,  with  an 
irrepressible  cry. 

"And  what  difference  would  it  ha'  made  if  you  had?" 
shrilled  Thyrza.  "But  you  want  'en  yourself,  that's  what 
it  is.  You  always  have.  I  know  you're  up  above  me;  but, 
it  seems,  not  above  him.  You  always  liked  'en,  I  know  that 
well  enough!" 

"You  don't  understand  what  I  mean  at  all,  Thyrza. 
He's  going  to  rise  by  his  talents  into  a  world  where  you'd 
be  strange,  where  you  can't  go  with  him.  It  doesn't  matter 
at  all  what  he  is  now,  it's  what  he  will  be.  He's  going 
to  live  a  quite  different  life  from  any  you've  been  used  to." 

"Going  to  live  with  you,  you  mean,"  said  Thyrza  bit- 
terly. 

"I've  no  such  thoughts  at  all,  as  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  anything  of  the  kind.  You've  always  had 
a  hankering  after  Ambrose,  else  why  has  he  been  taken  up 
same  as  you  have?" 

"Because  my  father  thinks  he  is  worth  helping,  that  he 
has  great  powers." 

"I  dunno  anything  about  that.  I  want  to  know  why  I 
shall  do  'en  any  harm.  He's  only  a  step  above  me,  for  my 
mother  was  his  mother's  cousin.  Now  his  father's  dead 
he'll  marry  me,  and  take  me  to  live  with  'en  wherever  he 


2o6  A  Man  of  Genius 

goes.  'Twas  only  that  he  couldn't  take  me  to  the  farm 
that's  prevented  him  marrying  me  before." 

"Has  he  told  his  mother  of  this?"  asked  Damaris  slowly. 
"Has  she  been  to  see  you,  or  sent  a  message?" 

There  was  a  silence  again,  and  the  rising  gusts  of  wind 
sounded  in  the  ears  of  both.  To  Damaris  it  seemed  like 
the  roaring  of  the  sea  of  reality,  into  which  she  was  slowly 
plunging  like  a  timid  swimmer,  while  Thyrza  stood  with  bent 
head  resting  on  her  clasped  hands.  To  her  mind  Mr. 
Velly's  death  had  altered  all  the  future,  for  now  Ambrose 
would  be  able  to  take  her  away  as  soon  as  he  knew  the 
necessity  for  it.  Yet  here  she  was  confronted  with  the 
social  laws  of  suitability  of  mind  and  character,  for  which 
nothing  in  her  past  experience  had  trained  her. 

"Child,"  began  Damaris. 

"My  Lord!  don't  you  'child'  me,"  sobbed  Thyrza. 
"You're  taking  him  away  from  me!  Why  do  'ee  treat  me 
so  cruel?" 

"Come  here,  Thyrza,"  said  Damaris,  pulling  the  girl 
nearer  by  the  dimpled  wrist.  "It  must  be  a  pain  to  you, 
I  know;  but  if  you  love  him  you  will  try  to  understand 
what  I  say." 

"But  if  I  love  'en,  how  can  I  hurt  'en?" 

The  words  pierced  Damaris  Westaway's  shield  of  com- 
placency, and  suddenly  the  vision  of  the  gardener's  daughter 
who  became  Catherine  Blake  rose  before  her  eyes.  She 
thought  of  the  noble,  ignorant  woman,  barely  able  to  write, 
who  never  complained  of  poverty,  and  was  a  true  helpmate 
to  a  genius.  Then  she  recognised  that  Thyrza  was  no 
Catherine  Blake,  nor  was  Ambrose,  indeed,  a  dreamer  of 
vast  dreams,  to  whom  a  garret-room  would  be  the  vestibule 
of  heaven.  The  social  success,  in  which  his  wife  must  help, 
would  be  absolutely  necessary  for  his  career. 

"See,  Thyrza,"  she  said,  "if  he  marries  you,  he  will  have 


The  Bitter  Chalice  207 

to  work  just  to  get  you  a  home.  He  will  be  poor  and 
struggling  for  a  long  time  and,  even  if  he  gets  on,  you  won't 
be  able  to  lead  the  life  he  must  lead.  His  brains  will  make 
people  forget  how  he  has  risen,  but  you  won't  even  have 
the  manners  of  the  world  in  which  he  will  live." 

"You  mean  I'd  demean  him?"  said  Thyrza,  in  a  very 
small  voice. 

"I  mean  you'd  be  happier  where  you  are.  It  would  all 
be  so  strange,  ThyTza,  to  you,  that  you  would  be  miserable. 
And  if  he  didn't  marry  you,  but  went  on  caring  for  you?" 

'^Well,"  said  Th>Tza,  'Td  have  'en  anyway." 

''Then,"  said  Damaris,  in  still  lower  tones,  "you  would 
be  a  shame  to  him,  just  a  shame.  And  you'd  be  an  out- 
cast in  your  own  eyes,  even  if  no  one  else  knew.  Oh,  I 
know  men  often  have  such  shames  in  their  lives.  But 
don't  you  love  him  well  enough  to  pray  that  there  may  be 
no  dark  blot,  caused  by  you,  in  the  life  of  the  man  you  say 
you  love  ?     Give  him  up,  for  his  sake,  if  not  for  your  own." 

"My  heavens!"  said  Thyrza,  looking  up  for  the  first 
time;   "why,  you  love  him  yourself!" 

The  thin  pocket-pencil  with  which  Damaris  had  been 
playing  snapped  in  her  hand,  and  she  turned  away  up  the 
room,  towards  the  cool  air  from  the  window.  At  that 
moment  came  the  first  doubt  of  her  own  purposes;  she 
could  not  tell  for  what  she  was  fighting,  whether  for  Am- 
brose's career,  or  for  her  own  heart's  desire.  The  next 
moment  she  knew. 

Thyrza  came  up  to  her,  and  scarcely  reaching  the  taller 
woman's  shoulder,  caught  the  sleeve  that  was  half-turned 
away  from  her. 

"And  his  child's  on  its  way,"  she  said  quietly — " his  child 
and  mine." 

"Oh,  my  God." 

In  a  paroxysm  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot,  Damaris 


2o8  A  Man  of  Genius 

turned,  and  stripping  off  the  lamp-shade  placed  it  on  the 
table.  She  looked  in  Thyrza's  eyes  and  saw  the  truth, 
looked  into  her  own  heart  and  knew  with  a  certainty  beyond 
contradiction  that  she  had  been  just  a  woman  fighting 
for  her  own  hand.  Face  to  face  with  herself,  at  last  she 
swam  into  the  sea  of  reality,  caught  in  the  eddy  of  fact. 

The  next  moment  a  storm  of  love  and  jealousy  attacked 
her,  and  she  seized  Thyrza,  sweeping  her  into  her  arms, 
pressing  her  close,  raining  kisses  on  the  mouth  that  had 
won  all  she  herself  must  starve  for. 

''Ay,"  said  Thyrza  to  herself,  ''you'm  hungry,  poor  dear 
soul,"  and  held  the  agonised  woman  close,  calling  her  tender 
names.  For  in  that  moment  of  reality  the  two  had  sud- 
denly changed  places,  and  the  weakling  had  the  stronger 
mind. 

'"That's  the  way  he  loved  me,  only  tenderer,"  thought 
Thyrza  to  herself,  till,  though  unsaid,  the  idea  seemed  to 
reach  Damaris  and  she  pushed  the  girl  away. 

"I  prayed,"  said  Thyrza,  "that  whatever  punishment 
there  was  should  come  on  me.  It's  come  now;  for  after 
what  you've  said,  I  must  leave  'en  free.  Fll  stand  between 
him  and  nothing  that's  good." 

Her  eyes  had  dark  shadows  under  them  now,  like  bruises 
on  a  flower-head. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  then?"  asked  Damaris,  her 
voice  sounding  in  her  own  ears  as  if  it  came  from  a  far 
distance. 

"Give  him  up.     Go  away  where  he  can't  find  me." 

"Is  it  true  what  you  told  me — absolutely,  certainly  true?" 
asked  Damaris  with  sudden  suspicion. 

"As  true  as  that  we'm  standing  here." 

"Then  how  can  you  do  it,  Thyrza?  His  child  to  have 
poverty,  namelessness  ?  " 

"But  it'll  be  his  child  anyway.     That'll  be  enough  for  it. " 


The  Bitter  Chalice  209 

"You're  beside  yourself.  You  don't  know  what  you're 
saying." 

"Oh,  I  don't,  I  don't,"  sobbed  Thyrza,  suddenly  break- 
ing down.     "However  shall  I  bear  it?" 

"Does  he  know?"  asked  Damaris,  trying  to  regain  her 
own  self-control. 

"No;  I  lied  to  'en  when  he  asked.  'Twas  before  his 
father  died,  when  he'd  a  heap  of  trouble  and  misery  to 
bear.  I  wouldn't  add  to  it.  Now,  if  you  hadn't  come,  I 
should  ha'  told  'en,  for  he'll  be  freer.  But  what  you've 
said  alters  everything.  He'll  be  a  great  man,  mayhap,  if 
I  don't  hinder  'en." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  said  Damaris;  "I  didn't 
know  how  it  was  when  I  spoke.  This,  that  you've  told 
me,  alters  ever}'thing.  Forgive  me,  for  I  didn't  know  what 
mischief  I  was  doing.  I  was  a  girl  ignorant  of  everything, 
blundering  in  where  I  ought  to  have  been  afraid  to  meddle. 
Sit  down  again,  Thyrza,  and  let  us  think  what  can  be  done. 
Forget  what  I  said." 

As  Damaris  sat  holding  the  girl's  hand  she  marvelled  at 
her  own  vulgarity.  For  now  that  she  was  actually  in  con- 
tact with  the  "gutters  and  empyreans"  of  which  she  had 
talked  so  glibly,  even  in  the  very  gutter  itself  gleamed  the 
love  that  will  bear  hard  usage  and  calumny  rather  than 
injure. 

But  was  it  right  to  allow  the  sacrifice?  To  offer  up 
Thyrza  and  her  child  to  an  entirely  problematic  future,  to 
a  promise  that  might  see  no  fulfillment,  based  as  it  was, 
solely  on  enthusiasm  and  hope?  Again,  might  Ambrose 
not  be  the  stronger  for  the  handicap?  And,  deeper  still, 
ought  he  not  to  pay?  Why,  in  the  name  of  justice,  should 
this  girl  pay  for  two? 

Damaris  could  not  answer  any  of  these. questions. 

Three  hours  later  she  softly  opened  the  door  of  the 
14 


21  o  A  Man  of  Genius 

Vicarage,  to  which  she  had  returned  shortly  before,  and, 
closing  it  behind  her,  walked  down  the  main  street  of 
Hardand. 

Before  morning  she  had  walked  miles,  for  during  those 
hours  the  powers  of  her  own  nature  were  rising  in  her  like 
some  poison  that  waits,  lurking  in  the  system  till  it  declares 
itself  by  the  agony  it  produces. 

The  house  was  a  prison,  the  sleepers  in  Hartland  an 
offence;  for  under  these  roofs  what  vileness  and  deception 
were  concealed.  Yet  never  had  the  beauty  of  a  spring 
night  struck  so  vividly  on  her  senses  as  now,  when  the 
waves  of  meadow  scent  filled  her  nostrils,  and  the  cry  of  a- 
lamb  sounded  above  the  murmur  of  a  stream  in  the  valley 
where  the  Abbey  stands. 

Presently  out  of  the  grey  light  there  emerged  the  square 
tower  of  Hartland  church,  a  sombre  rock  with  its  base  in 
misty  shadows,  backed  by  the  spaces  of  sea  and  sky,  a 
landmark  for  miles  round. 

A  monument  of  human  folly,  it  seemed  to  her,  this 
Church,  whether,  as  here,  set  up  in  the  wilderness,  or  in  the 
midst  of  reeking  alleys.  The  deadliest  blow  of  all  had 
been  struck  through  it  at  the  whole  human  race,  so  her 
father  had  often  told  her.  For  had  not  that  Church  shut, 
during  many  centuries,  the  tenderest  hearts  in  monasteries 
and  convents,  driving  to  the  stake,  or  into  exile,  the  boldest 
thinkers,  and  leaving  only  the  brutal  or  the  dull  to  make 
the  ages  yet  to  be  by  the  children  they  bore  ? 

She  passed  by  the  sleeping  cottages  of  Stoke,  up  to  the 
six  gnarled  lime  trees  that  form  a  miniature  avenue  to  the 
church,  and  sitting  down  on  the  stone  stile  that  leads  to  the 
churchyard,  she  began  to  realise  that  she  held  in  her  hands, 
at  the  present  moment,  the  fate  of  several  human  beings. 

Suddenly  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  crouching 
down  on  the  wide  steps  of  the  stile,  as  the  women  in  city 


The  Bitter  Chalice  211 

archways  do;  for  there  seemed  to  come  leaping  towards  her 
with  the  clearness  of  a  vision,  a  child  form,  rosy  with  sweet 
blood,  dim{)led  and  soft. 

Then  she  understood  Thyrza;  there  was  now  to  Damaris 
no  question  of  forgiveness,  for  Thyrza  and  her  like  were 
the  women  of  nature,  the  women  of  barbarism.  What  are 
social  laws  to  them  when  the  great  forces  of  life  call  loudly? 

Damaris  drew  a  deep  breath  and  rose  from  her  crouching 
attitude,  for  she  wanted  to  face  this  new  perception,  terrible 
as  it  was  at  first  to  her  own  fierce  maidenliness.  She  walked 
upright  now,  with  swinging  steps,  towards  the  sea, 
with  something  of  the  elation  that  the  mind  feels  at  the 
first  sight  of  a  great  idea,  just  caught  in  its  bare  outlines 
through  the  shifting  mist  of  fancies.  Damaris,  for  a 
second,  felt  herself  full  of  fresh  light  for  she  had  grasped 
the  meaning  of  an  old  worship,  older  than  Christianity, 
older  than  Judaism,  the  worship  of  the  mother-soul  that 
goes  back  to  far  Egyptian  days.  Then  she  laughed  at  her 
own  pedantry. 

But  the  next  instant  pity  smote  her,  for  though  man 
himself  is  only  just  emerging  from  barbarism,  yet  the  social 
organisation  would  cripple  poor  Thyrza's  life.  They  pay 
back  with  deadly  power,  these  laws  that  women  break  so 
lightly.  They  would  pay,  the  woman  and  child.  For  the 
innocent  must  pay  most  dearly  after  all.  Now  Damaris 
thoroughly  understood  her  father's  passionate  desire  to  help 
the  spoilt  lives  that  crowd  our  cities,  the  human  wreckage 
everywhere.  Was  Ambrose's  child  to  go  down  there  among 
the  outcast,  to  live  on  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  tables 
of  plenty? 

Ambrose's^  child?  Then  the  agony  struck  home,  such 
agony  as  she  had  never  even  guessed  at. 

She  sat  on  a  rock,  watching  the  foam  fall  like  snow-mist 
outside  the  inky  shadows  of  the  cliffs. 


212  A  Man  of  Genius 

At  last  the  long  rays  of  the  dawn  began  to  gleam  over 
the  heaving  surface  of  greyness,  and  in  the  lines  of  light 
there  seemed  to  reach  worn  senses  the  shining  of  the  great 
peace  that  comes  with  renunciation.  For  Damaris  had 
found  her  true  self,  the  self  that  gives  up  its  heart's  desire 
at  the  call  of  another's  need.  The  dawn  seemed  like  the 
coming  of  the  Son  of  Man  to  the  spirits  in  prison;  she 
drew  long,  slow  breaths  that  shook  her  whole  body.  It  was 
thus  that  she  greeted  the  angel  of  the  infinite  that  comforts 
in  the  hour  of  unselfish  rejection. 

On  the  following  evening  Mr.  Westaway  stood  up  to 
preach  for  the  last  time  in  Hartland  Church.  As  the  old 
sexton  went  round  lowering  the  lights  one  by  one,  the 
Vicar  watched  the  faces  of  his  parishioners  grow  dimmer 
and  more  dim,  till  nothing  but  white  discs  remained.  He 
saw  Ambrose  Velly  seated  by  his  mother  all-beshrouded 
in  crape;  not  far  from  them  sat  Damaris,  her  face  upturned 
towards  her  father  in  the  tenseness  of  sympathy;  far  away 
at  the  back  of  the  church  he  noticed  John  Darracott.  Then 
the  last  light  was  turned  down;  only  against  the  rich  carving 
of  the  painted  screen  behind  him,  against  its  palms  of 
gold  and  red,  the  Vicar's  white  head  shone  out  in  the  light 
of  the  two  candles  that  burned  on  the  edge  of  the  pulpit. 

Mr.  Westaway  possessed  the  power,  often  found  in  shy 
people,  of  speaking  his  most  intimate  thoughts  to  a  crowd 
as  he  could  never  have  done  to  a  friend.  He  gave  out  his 
text  automatically:  ''Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall 
he  also  reap."  Then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  he  pushed 
aside  the  manuscript  from  which  he  had  intended  to  read 
his  farewell  sermon  and  plunged  into  the  speech  he  had 
not  prepared.  Leaning  over  the  pulpit  he  looked  into  the 
dim  church,  beyond  which  he  could  see  the  swallows  wheel- 
ing outside  as  he  gazed  through  the  open  doorway. 

■'yje  men,"  said  he,  "make  many  laws.     But  in  God's 


The  Bitter  Chalice  213 

world,  the  world  in  which  we  all  live,  there  is  but  one  law. 
You  have  just  heard  it:  'Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that 
shall  he  also  reap.'  It  is  the  law  that  every  Church,  east 
and  west  alike,  has  taught;  it  is  the  law  that  is  written  all 
down  the  history  of  the  ages,  to  the  very  last  minute  of 
recorded  time,  which  is — now.     There  is  no  other  law. 

"Yet  you,  wise  farmers  as  many  of  you  are,  men  who 
never  sow  barley  expecting  wheat  to  come,  or  clover  if  you 
want  oats,  you  go  on  sowing  strife  and  expecting  the  har^Tst 
of  peace,  sowing  lust  and  expecting  the  harvest  of  purity, 
sowing  penury  and  expecting  plenty.  Yet  you  know  the 
folly,  and  so  you  try  to-day  to  undo  what  you  did  yesterday. 
You  often  pray,  though  you  may  not  know  it,  that  God  will 
turn  back  His  universe  and  blot  out  yesterday;  make  it  as 
though  it  had  never  been.  For  in  nothing  that  we  do  are 
we  more  impious  than  in  our  prayers. 

"Yet  there  is  no  God  in  this,  or  any  other  universe,  that 
will  do  this — or  can.  For  it  is  you  yourselves  who  are  your 
own  god,  and  what  you  do  to-day  is  settling  what  your  lot 
will  be  to-morrow,  and  in  the  many,  many  to-morrows  that 
you  cannot  see.  And  this  is  as  true  of  nations  and  peoples 
as  it  is  of  individuals;  the  England  of  to-morrow  will  be 
the  England  that  is  being  manufactured  to-day — by  us. 
For  there  is  no  secret  in  all  the  world.  Things  done  in  the 
field  shall  be  known  in  the  street,  and  things  in  the  bed- 
room on  the  very  housetop.  There  are  women  here  who 
try  to  cover  their  man's  brutality;  it  can't  be  done.  There 
are  men  here  who  try  to  hide  their  wife's  meanness;  it 
can't  be  done  For  the  beating  of  a  child,  for  the  lust  of 
rage,  or  the  torture  of  a  wife,  for  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  will 
bear  fruit  one  day,  not  in  the  cowering  child,  or  in  the  worn- 
out  woman  alone,  but  in  the  man  himself.  He  i)ays,  if  not 
now,  then  in  the  future,  and  with  compound  interest;  for  the 
book-keepers  of  eternity  never  make  a  mistake.     And  the 


214  A  Man  of  Genius 

stingy  woman  who  feeds  her  servants  on  cheese  parings,  if 
there  are  any  who  will  stand  such  treatment  in  these  days, 
starves  her  own  life  more  effectually  than  she  ever  starved 
any  kitchen  wench's.  And  a  man  who  betrays  a  woman, 
even  though  he  hide  the  deed  and  its  fruit,  pays  in  some 
other  lot  for  the  crime  that  he  thought  none  knew  save 
one  poor  soul.  Speak  out  you  must,  sometime,  and  in  the 
very  meagreness  of  our  lives  to-day  our  past  speaks  elo- 
quently enough. 

''My  past  speaks  now  to  me  more  clearly  than  if  blazoned 
by  the  trumpet  of  an  angel.  For  I  have  given  meanly, 
thought  only  selfish  thoughts,  failed  through  cowardice  to 
speak  what  I  believed — and  I  reap  the  harvest  to-day. 

"For,  like  many  of  you,  I  am  starving.  In  a  world  full 
of  glory,  full  of  love,  of  deep  enthusiasms,  of  blows  for  the 
good  and  battles  for  the  right,  of  the  glow  of  comrade 
valour,  I  have  been  satisfied  with — what? 

"A  tepid  respect  from  my  parishioners,  a  more  or  less 
conventional  feeling  of  sympathy  from  a  mere  handful  of 
friends,  good  meals  occurring  frequently,  and  a  little  pur- 
poseless thought.  Just  the  things,  in  fact,  that  satisfy  most 
of  you.  Why,  the  most  amazing  thing  in  this  world  is  not 
the  poverty,  nor  the  suffering,  nor  the  pain,  nor  the  sin, 
but  that  a  creature  thrilling  from  head  to  foot  with  capaci- 
ties for  bliss — yes,  sheer  bliss,  you  know  the  word,  bliss,  the 
thing  that  seizes  you  on  eagle's  wings  and  bears  you  to  the 
heights — should  be  satisfied  with  soft  beds,  beef  on  Sunday, 
a  lukewarm  smile,  or  a  sour  one,  from  his  neighbour,  and 
a  yawn  from  his  wife.  'Twasn't  that  way  that  she  greeted 
you  when  all  the  wonder  of  life  was  in  the  touch  of  her 
hands,  in  the  glance  of  her  eyes. 

"My  friends,  it  doth  not  appear  yet  what  we  shall  be,  for 
worlds  of  power  are  already  opening  before  us,  if  we  will 
only  enter  them.     But  we  must  not  be  content  with  fifth- 


The  Bitter  Chalice  215 

rate  satisfactions.  And  without  courage,  without  the  bold- 
ness that  speaks  what  is  in  us,  and  faces  the  consequences 
of  our  own  deeds,  we  can  never  be  men,  much  less  the  gods 
we  were  meant  to  be. 

"This  is  my  last  word  to  you.  I  shall  never  s])eak  from 
this  pulpit  again.  But  I  hope,  when  I've  left  it,  to  speak 
more  clearly  than  I  have  ever  done  in  my  life  before. 

**And  now  for  my  reasons  for  leaving  it.  I  heard  a  man 
say  the  other  day:  'Passon's  leaving  because  he  thinks  he's 
too  good  for  the  Church.'  Now,  I'm  leaving  for  precisely 
the  opposite  reason.  This  Church  follows  a  Man  who 
lived  the  life  of  toil,  who  had  often  no  roof  over  His  head 
and  but  little  food  to  eat,  and  I  have  all  my  life  denied 
Him  by  taking  all  the  ease,  all  the  money,  all  the  food,  all 
the  treasures  on  which  I  could  lay  hands.  My  friends, 
I  am  not  good  enough  for  the  Church  of  the  Jewish  car- 
penter, the  friend  of  harlots  and  fishermen  and  outcasts, 
the  close  companion  of  the  rejected  of  men." 

He  was  gone  from  the  pulpit  by  the  time  the  lights  were 
all  turned  up,  and  he  remained  sitting  quietly  in  his  place 
while  the  curate  finished  the  service.  In  the  bustle  that 
followed  the  sermon,  all  eyes  were  turned  from  Mr.  West- 
away  to  Damaris.  Yet  her  thoughts  were  hardly  with  her 
father  at  all,  but  with  Thyrza,  for  the  thought  grew  with 
every  horn-  that  passed,  that  the  girl,  for  all  her  quietness, 
was  approaching  a  state  of  desperation.  The  sermon 
brought  this  idea  to  a  head,  till  Damaris  felt  almost  panic- 
stricken  at  seeing  Ambrose  sitting  peacefully  there,  while 
the  consequences  of  his  acts  were  perhaps  writing  them- 
selves down  for  all  men  to  see. 

As  she  saw  him  stoop  and  whisper  something  to  his 
mother,  she  stood  up  in  irrepressible  excitement.  Then, 
when  he  slipped  out  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation  had 
moved,  she  followed  noiselessly  down  the  aisle  after  him. 


2i6  A  Man  of  Genius 

Once  outside,  she  recognised  the  folly  of  her  half-thought, 
for  she  saw  that  he  merely  took  the  road  to  Long  Furlong, 
probably  hurrying  back  that  he  might  relieve  Vinnicombe 
from  some  task.  It  was  impossible  that  he  could  have 
applied  the  sermon  to  the  thought  of  Thyrza's  need,  as  she 
had  done. 

In  her  perplexity  Damaris  stood  twisting  her  hands  and 
asking  breathlessly  for  help.  For  she  was  afraid  of  her 
own  responsibility,  since  she  alone  knew  of  Thyrza's  trouble. 
At  last  she  ran  down  the  lane  after  Ambrose,  counting 
feverishly  the  gate  spaces  that  yawned  on  the  open  meadows 
in  the  dim  light.  Then,  as  she  noticed  the  signs  of  emotion 
on  his  face,  her  own  courage  came  back.  They  walked 
on  together,  the  sound  of  their  footsteps  sending  little 
tremors  through  her  brain. 

"I  have  a  message  for s you,"  said  she,  "though  I  did 
not  know  till  to-night  that  I  had  it.  It's  from  Thyrza 
Braund.     I  was  at  Bradworthy  yesterday  and  saw  her." 

With  one  great  heart-beat  Ambrose  knew  what  was 
coming. 

"John  Darracott  asked  me  to  go,"  she  added. 

"And  you  believed  all  that  he  told  you,"  said  Ambrose 
hoarsely. 

"He  did  not  tell  me  all,  for  he  did  not  know  it  himself. 
But  now  I  know  everything,  more  even  than  you." 

"That  cannot  possibly  be,"  he  laughed  savagely. 

"Never  mind  that,"  she  cried  impatiently.  "The  point 
is  that  Thyrza  cannot  be  left  alone.  You  must  go  to  her 
to-night." 

"To-night?" 

"Yes;  to-night.  You  ought  to  have  gone  this  morning. 
It's  my  fault  that  you  didn't.  But  hour  by  hour  I've  seen 
more  clearly." 

"But  you  must  tell  me  more  than  this." 


The  Bitter  Chalice  217 

"Think  of  the  worst  that  could  have  happened — and  then 
go.  Ah,  you  will  regret  it  to  the  end  of  your  days  if  you 
don't." 

"What  must  you  think  of  me?"  he  cried,  standing  still. 

"I  try  to  think  no  evil.  I  try  to  understand,"  she  an- 
swered brokenly. 

Then,  as  he  saw  her  face,  a  gleam  of  comprehension 
came  to  his  masculine  densencss. 

"God  forgive  me,"  he  said  at  last,  "for  all  the  trouble 
I've  brought  on  you." 

"Most  of  all  on  her,"  she  said  pitifully;  "but  you  will 
go?" 

"At  once,"  he  said.  Then  with  a  "God  bless  you, 
Princess,"  he  ran  back  to  Hartland  to  meet  his  mother, 
and  hire  a  horse  at  the  inn. 

So  far,  most  of  Ambrose  Velly's  troubles  had  been 
brought  on  him  by  other  people,  but  now  he  faced  the 
worst  misery  in  the  world,  the  pain  brought  on  him  by  his 
own  act.  He  scarcely  dared  think  of  what  lay  behind 
Damaris  Westaway's  words.  Yet  he  guessed,  and  knew 
that  Thyrza  must  have  lied  to  spare  him  trouble.  In  the 
quick  thrust  of  this  thought  he  winced,  for  he  would  not 
willingly  have  hurt  a  living  thing,  yet  had  brought  this  on 
a  woman.  Thus  he  looked  on  the  face  of  his  desire  and 
found  it  ugly. 

As  he  rode  through  the  dark  to  Bradworthy,  he  was 
fighting  for  a  foothold,  up  or  down,  in  the  great  inclined 
plane  of  e.xistence,  and  when  he  thundered  at  the  door  of 
Chrissie's  darkened  house,  the  recording  angel  registered 
ascent,  for  the  sunny,  artist  nature  had  savoured,  at  least 
once,  the  ugliness  of  basely  gratified  instincts. 

At  last  Mrs.  Rosevear  put  her  head  out  of  the  window, 
and  seeing  who  stood  below,  hurried  down  in  weird  noc- 
turnal array  to  open  the  door.     They  stood  together  by 


21 8  A  Man  of  Genius 

the  table  in  the  light  of  a  candle  that  guttered  in  the  draught 
from  the  door. 

"Ay,"  she  said  bitterly,  "so  you  can  come  now  when 
it's  too  late.  She's  gone;  for  it's  Thyrza  that  you  want,  of 
course." 

"Gone?"  he  repeated  dully. 

"Yes;  gone  out  of  this  house,  so  she  shouldn't  shame  it. 
I  charged  her  with  it,  and  she  told  me  last  night." 

"But  why  did  she  go?" 

"  She's  paying  for  the  both  of  you  now,  and  the  world'll 
soon  know,"  said  Chrissie  slowly. 

Ambrose  turned  away. 

"  Chrissie,  I  swear  to  you  I  never  knew  it.  I'd  have  cut 
my  right  hand  off  before  she  should  have  suffered  like 
this." 

"Ay,  very  like,"  said  Chrissie  miserably;  "and  God 
forgive  me,  for  I  spoke  sharp  to  her  too,  the  poor  little 
soul.  I  never  thought  of  her  giving  me  the  slip  like  this, 
or  I'd  have  watched  her  night  and  day." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  swollen  with  crying,  as  he 
noticed  now. 

"Chrissie,"  he  said,  "you're  a  good  sort.  But  what  are 
w^e  to  do  now  ?  She  must  be  brought  back.  You'll  take 
her  in,  won't  you?" 

"My  word,  'take  her  in,'"  saith  he;  "why,  don't  I  wish 
I'd  got  her  here  this  minute!  I'd  tuck  her  up  safe  and 
warm,  I'll  warn.  She  never  told  me  who  the  man  was,  but 
I  knowed  when  I  saw  your  face." 

Ambrose  groaned  inwardly;  in  the  drumming  of  his 
pulses  he  seemed  to  hear  the  flails  of  fate  winnowing  the 
grain  from  the  chaff  on  the  dusty  threshing-floor  of  the 
world.  But  which  is  grain  and  which  is  chaff  none  but 
the  unseen  threshers  know,  when  such  loyalty  is  found  in  a 
frail  woman. 


The  Bitter  Chalice  219 

"  Which  way  did  she  go  ?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  Chrissie,  with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"But  didn't  you  send  along  the  roads  after  her?" 

"And  give  warning  to  all  the  world  of  her  trouble! 
Yah!  you're  naught  but  a  fool,"  exclaimed  Chrissie,  her 
temper  giving  way  at  last.  "No,  I  dunno  where  she  is. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  nearest  pond,  mayhap.  And  you 
can't  find  her  to-night.  Nobody  can.  That's  your 
punishment,  to  think  of  her  wandering,  God  knows 
where." 

"You  really  don't  know?" 

"  I  know  no  more  than  the  dead.  Now  get  out  of  my 
house,  for,  though  I'd  be  thankful  to  see  her  litde  white 
face  again,  I  can't  stomach  the  sight  of  'ee  nohow.  'Tis  all 
the  man's  fault  when  there's  a  rig  like  this,"  cried  Chrissie, 
deserting  all  her  principles  of  man  management  in  an  out- 
burst of  sex  loyalty.  "But  I've  been  a  fool,  too,  letting 
the  cheeld  traipse  about  free — me,  me,  that  ought  to  have 
known  better  than  let  her.  For  there's  some  so  queachy 
and  prim  that  you'd  think  all  the  babbies  grew  upon 
parsley-beds,  and  all  the  slaughtering  was  done  with  a 
butter-knife.  Mim's  not  the  word  for  that  sort.  To  look 
at  them  mincing  along,  you'd  think  they  didn't  know  milk 
come  from  a  cow  nor  eggs  from  a  hen.  Lord,  I  know  that 
sort.  'Oh,  really,'  says  they,  if  you  let  fly  something 
powerful.  But  I'm  not  that  sort,  thank  God,  yet  here  I've 
been  acting  like  one.  Never  again  will  I  be  blinded  like 
this,  though." 

Over  in  his  room  at  the  inn  Ambrose  walked  up  and 
down  all  night  with  a  maddening  repetition-  of  fancies 
about  Thyrza  going  on  in  his  brain.  He  would  not  look 
at  the  darker  pictures  painted  by  Chrissie's  hysteria,  but  he 
knew  they  were  there.  When  the  first  light  came  he  was 
asleep  with  his  head  on  his  arms,  lying  across  the  bed  in  a 


220  A  Man  of  Genius 

restless  slumber  full  of  aches.  He  started  up  at  last  to 
thank  God  for  the  return  of  daylight,  when  he  could  at 
least  move  in  the  search  for  Thyrza. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon,  while  Chrissie  was  at  church, 
the  girl  had  slipped  out  of  the  house  into  a  dense  storm  of 
rain  that  was  falling  at  the  moment.  At  the  end  of  the 
village  she  stood  under  the  hedge  for  a  moment,  till  hear- 
ing a  trap  approaching,  she  hurried  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  road. 

"  Whoa,  there,"  said  the  driver,  pulling  up  when  he  saw 
that  the  girl  wanted  to  speak  to  him.  She  began  a  story 
of  a  lost  road,  and  the  urgent  need  there  was  for  her  to 
push  on  to  her  destination. 

"Bideford,"  said  the  man,  pushing  his  hat  back  from  his 
forehead.  "  Bideford's  a  brave  way  from  here.  I'm  only 
going  back  to  Galsworthy  farm.     That's  so  fur  as  I  go." 

"Whatever  shall  I  do?"  asked  Thyrza. 

"You'd  better  bide  here  to-night." 

"  Oh,  but  I  must  get  on.  My  husband's  ill,  and  I 
can't  lose  any  time.     Can't  you  help  me?" 

"Tell  'ee  what,  you  seem  a  respectable  young  woman 
and  in  a  rare  taking.  I've  got  to  be  in  Buckland  Brewer 
early  to-morra,  and  I  could  set  'ee  down  there  at  the  carrier's. 
You  can  get  a  shake-down  with  Mrs.  Leggo  to  Galsworthy, 
I  make  no  manner  of  doubt." 

After  a  long,  slow  drive  the  trap  drew  up  in  front  of  a  low 
house,  its  ancient  walls  stone-fronted  in  grey  and  sheltered 
by  a  chestnut  tree  that  leant  above  a  wood-rick,  piled  with 
mossy  branches  and  feathered  with  boughs  cut  from  the 
gorse.  The  iron-grey  walls  were  meagre,  not  with  the 
squalor  of  poverty,  but  with  its  age-long  struggle.  Yet  on 
summer  noons,  between  the  sheltering  trees  of  the  meadow 
in  front,  all  the  far  distance  shimmered  for  miles  below  in 
the  haze  of  sunlight,  and  from  the  field  at  the  back,  to  west 


The  Bitter  Chalice  221 

and  east,  lay  the  purple  of  Dartmoor  and  Exmoor,  till  both 
were  lost  in  the  sky-line. 

As  Thyrza  walked  up  the  garden  path  she  could  see  a 
grey-haired  woman  bending  over  the  seam  of  a  nightdress. 
The  room  was  bright  with  the  china  that  glittered  on  the 
dresser  in  the  fire-light,  and  in  the  meek,  simple  glance  of 
the  lanthorn-jawed  woman  who  answered  her  knock,  Thyrza 
found  comfort.  For  the  tightly  braided  hair,  the  squeezed 
black  bodice,  even  the  cotton-wool  in  the  ears,  might  have 
comforted  a  starveling  cur.  The  woman  glanced  from 
Thyrza  to  the  trap  in  the  yard. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"  I'm  on  my  way  to  meet  my  husband.  Your  man  found 
me  at  Bradworthy  and  offered  me  a  lift,  so  that  I  could  go 
on  to-morrow." 

''He's  no  man  of  mine.  He  works  for  Squire  Polking- 
horne.  But 'tis  a  queer  tale;  for  there's  inns  at  Bradworthy 
where  you  could  ha'  been  put  up." 

"But  I've  never  been  to  places  like  that  by  myself." 

Mrs.  Leggo  fully  understood  that  sentiment. 

"  I'm  not  a  tramp  woman,"  protested  Thyrza,  "  and  I  can 
pay." 

"  I  don't  want  any  pay.     What's  your  husband  ?  " 

"He's  a  sailor.     I'm  to  meet  him  at  Bideford." 

"Mine  was  a  sailor,  too.  But  he  died  twelve  months 
agone,  and  then  Squire  Polkinghorne,  for  that's  who 
Galsworthy  belongs  to,  put  me  in  here  'gainst  'tis  let  again. 
'Twas  built  for  the  Galsworthy  family,  I  suppose,  but  they 
must  ha'  left  years  upon  years  agone.  'Tis  eight  hundred 
years  old  in  some  parts  of  the  old  walls,  they  say.  I've 
only  the  use  of  two  rooms,  and  I've  a  young  baby,  too,  as 
well  as  two  chillern." 

"Oh,"  cried  Thyrza,  "do  let  me  come  in  and  see  the 
baby.     I  love  a  baby,  and  I've  nowhere  else  to  go." 


222  A  Man  of  Genius 

"  By  good  rights  you  should  never  ha'  come  at  all.  But 
that's  just  Tom  Sanguin's  way.  Never  does  he  come  home 
but  what  he  picks  up  something  on  the  way,  if  'tis  only  a 
flea,  so  his  wife  says.  But  you  can't  go  to  his  cottage,  for  'tis 
a  little  small  sort  of  place,  and  with  ten  children,  too.  I  sup- 
pose you  must  come  in,  for  'tisn't  a  night  to  turn  a  dog  out." 

By  the  side  of  the  hearth  was  a  cradle,  and  on  the  pillow 
a  sleeping  head.  Thyrza  sank  down  by  the  side  of  it  and 
began  to  cry. 

"There,  there,  you'm  tired  out,"  said  the  woman.  "I 
know,  only  don't  'ee  drop  a  tear  on  'en,  there's  a  dear,  for 
'tis  mortal  unlucky.  Now,  have  'ee  got  anything  dry  to  put 
on?" 

"  May  I  go  up  and  tidy  ?  I'm  such  a  lerrups  as  never  was." 

If  Thyrza  had  been  "  as  deep  as  Garrick,"  as  Mrs.  Velly 
would  have  said,  she  could  have  uttered  nothing  more 
likely  to  please  Mrs.  Leggo  than  that,  and  when  the  guest 
came  down,  clean  and  dry,  all  doubts  about  strange  women 
who  stole  spoons  and  cut  throats  had  vanished.  On  a  plate 
in  front  of  the  fire  was  a  hissing  rasher  of  bacon,  and  on 
the  hob  stood  a  teapot. 

"  There,  now,  sit  ye  down  and  take  your  supper  comfort- 
able," said  her  hostess.  "  I  declare  I'm  quite  set  up  to 
see  'ee;  for  I  don't  so  much  as  pass  the  time  of  day  with 
a  stranger,  not  once  in  a  month.  And  though  I've  been 
used  to  a  quiet  life,  for  my  husband  was  in  the  coastguard, 
there's  naught  could  be  quieter  than  Galsworthy  between 
the  four  seas,  as  they  say." 

"But  how  do  you  come  to  be  here?"  asked  Thyrza. 

"  I  married  from  the  squire's,  ten  years  agone,  and  when 
Zack,  that's  my  man,  died,  they  put  me  here  for  a  bit,  after 
the  cheeld  come." 

"Oh,  he's  waking,"  cried  Thyrza,  as  a  sleepy  cry  and  a 
heaving  of  blankets  came  from  the  cradle. 


i 


The  Bitter  Chalice  223 

"There's  a  treasure,"  said  his  mother,  holding  him  up, 
blanket  and  all,  while  the  beady  eyes  of  the  little  one 
blinked  at  the  "canna  moon"  on  the  table. 

"Ah!  give  him  to  me,"  cried  Thyrza,  holding  out  her 
arms. 

The  warmth  of  the  bundle  against  her,  the  restless  limbs, 
awoke  the  pain  in  her,  as  the  first  spring  day  arouses  a 
torpid  animal. 

"There  now,  how  good  he  is,"  said  Mrs.  Leggo.  "  'Tis 
easy  to  see  you'll  be  a  good  mother.  Now,  I'll  tell  'ee 
about  Zack,  for  you've  got  a  heart  to  'ee,  though  it  did  seem 
queer  for  'ee  to  turn  up  upon  a  body's  doorstep  like  this. 
A  better  nor  a  kinder  man  than  Zack  never  broke  England's 
bread,"  she  continued,  "though  a  Primitive  Methodist, 
which  I  don't  hold  with  myself.  And  never  so  much  as 
winked  an  eye  at  the  maidens  after  us  had  stood  afore  the 
parson.  And  the  beer  he'd  drink  in  a  twelvemonth  wouldn't 
ha'  hurt  a  two-year-old." 

"Ah,  he  must  ha'  been  a  good  man,"  sighed  Thyrza, 
thinking  of  another  who  had  winked  his  eyes  at  the  maidens. 

But  Mrs.  Leggo's  inward  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  lonely 
cottage  above  Gurnet's  Head,  her  ears  were  filled  with  the 
churning  of  the  surf. 

"  It  was  over  by  the  Land's  End  they  sent  'en  to,  last  of 
all,  the  wishtest  place  that  ever  God  made.  There  was  but 
the  three  cottages,  and  one  empty  at  that,  and  as  for  the 
fam'ly  that  lived  in  the  second — well,  there's  fam'lies  in  the 
coastguard  that  you  couldn't  be  friends  with  for  five  minutes. 
And  three  miles  to  go  for  as  much  as  a  loaf,  and  that  over 
seven  stiles.  The  meeting-place,  where  one  coastguard 
meets  the  next  man  every  day,  was  one  of  they  camps  that 
the  old  ancient  ones  made  back  along." 

It  was  a  prehistoric  coast  castle,  wind-swept,  Atlantic 
buffeted,  and  ghostly  with  the  skin-clad  hillmen.  Thyrza 


224  A  Man  of  Genius 

shivered    as    the    grey    mist  of    night  closed  all   rounc 
the   farm. 

"And  us  come  from  Boscastle,  where  a  body  could  find' 
a  sawl  to  speak  to,  and  get  for  a  bit  sometimes  out  of  the 
sound  of  the  roar."  She  meant  the  beating  of  the  surf,  endless 
as  the  centuries,  relentless  as  the  nature  forces  behind  it. 

"  'Twas  a  punishment  place  to  'en,  that's  what  it  was. 
There  was  two  above  Zack  as  sent  the  orders  to  my  man, 
and  the  boat  that  didn't  put  out,  but  that  ought  to  ha' 
done  so,  could  ha'  saved  five  lives,  and  one  of  'em  a  cheeld's. 
So  they  sent  my  man  to  Gurnet's  Head,  and  I  knowed 
that  he  couldn't  get  they  lives  out  of  his  head,  for  they 
could  ha'  bin  so  easy  saved,  and  him  so  tender  to  his  own 
chillern.  Why,  the  last  thing  that  ever  he  did  was  to 
undress  the  little  maid. 

"  And  then  the  pains  in  his  head  come  on.  They  called 
it  the  influenzy,  but  I  knowed  better.  Soon  after  he  went  to 
Lightship,  and  his  mates  said  a  wouldn't  touch  not  a  drop 
of  beer  or  tay,  but  sat  holding  his  head.  When  he  corned 
back  I  knowed  a  was  worse,  though  a  wouldn't  be  put  on 
the  sick-list.  And  all  the  time  the  churn,  churn  of  the  say 
in  his  ears.  Why,  I've  known  'en  start  up  of  a  night  all  in 
a  sweat  with  the  skritch  of  the  gulls,  and  when  a  man's 
come  to  that You  see,  there  wasn't  naught  to  look  for- 
ward to,  but  the  meeting  and  the  six  hours'  shift  of  watch- 
ing, with  pay-day  on  the  first  of  the  month,  though  if  the  first 
come  on  a  Sunday,  you  don't  get  your  pay  till  the  Monday. 

"  One  night  I  missed  'en.  The  gulls  was  a-calling,  and 
the  say  like  lead.  He'd  just  put  the  eldest  cheeld  to  bed, 
and  I  did  what  I'd  never  done  afore — just  laid  down  by 
the  side  of  her  for  a  minute.  'Twas  all  quiet-like,  till  I 
sort  of  missed  'en,  and  the  goose-flesh  shiver  come  upon 
me.  I  went  down  to  the  passage,  and  there  was  his  coat 
and  hat.     'Twas  November,  so  I  knowed  a  hadn't  gone  to 


The  Bitter  Chalice  225 

meeting.  I  went  out  and  called,  and  then  I  thought  a 
must  be  up  to  fowl-house,  and  I  started  across  garden  to 
it.  Zack  had  been  digging  up  the  patch,  and  the  girt 
ridges  he'd  left  seemed  to  start  up  and  hit  me.  But  I 
never  got  to  fowl-house,  for  there  come  a  sudden  pufi  of 
mist — ouff !  like  that — and  I  couldn't  ha'  opened  that  door. 
I  reckon  'twas  then  a  did  it.  And  that  mist  was  his  spirit 
come  out  to  warn  me,  for  'twould  ha'  bin  the  death  o'  me 
and  o'  this  one." 

Pink  Toes  gurgled  gleefully  as  the  firelight  crej)t  closer 
into  the  fla.xen  tangle  of  curls,  through  which  shone  the  red 
flush  of  his  little  round  head. 

'"Mr.  Marsden,  Mr.  Marsden!'  I  called  to  the  man  next 
door.     'Where's  Zack?' 

" '  Why,  gone  to  make  a  meeting,  Mrs.  Leggo.  What  be 
all  in  a  stour  about?'  saith  a. 

'"Zack's  never  gone  to  meeting,'  says  I.  '  You  go  up  to 
fowl-house.' 

"With  that  I  went  and  fetched  the  chillern  down.  I 
don't  know  why,  for  I  took  no  more  notice  of  'em  than  of  the 
flags  on  the  floor.  And  then  the  tears  come,  and  that  saved 
me.  Mrs.  Marsden  was  by  me  now.  I'd  had  words  with 
her  the  day  before,  but  that  didn't  matter  now;  'twas  agony 
point.  And  her  looked  out.  I  couldn't.  Suddenly  her 
said,  '  Jim's  to  the  telephone.' 

"And  then  I  knowed  I  shouldn't  see  Zack  again.  And 
presently  her  said — and  all  the  time  the  churn,  churn, 
coming  in  through  the  window:  'There's  Mr.  Tregelles.' 
That's  the  farmer  to  Lower  Town,  I  thought,  silly-like. 
Then  her  slipped  out.  I  would  ha'  followed  her,  but  they 
pushed  me  back.  There  was  five  men  outside  by  now,  and 
ne'er  a  one  of  'em  could  come  in  to  tell  me  the  truth.  I've 
often  laughed  since  to  think  of  they  five;  gabies  though 
they  be,  they're  tender-hearted,  they  men. 
IS 


226  A  Man  of  Genius 

"  At  last  Mrs.  Marsden  come  in,  and  I  says,  sharplike — 

"'Well,  what  is  it?' 

"  And  her  says,  'You'll  never  forgive  me  if  I  tell  'ee." 

"  'Shall  I  ever  see  'en  again  ?' 

"  'No,  never,'  says  she,  quite  quiet. 

"And  I  never  did,  not  even  in  his  coffin,  though  the 
coroner  had  left  the  knife  upon  the  table  when  I  come 
into  the  'quest  room.  I  just  told  'en,  too,  what  I  thought 
of  'en,  girt  cabbage-head,  for  leaving  it  about.  And  they 
took  the  coffin  over  seven  stiles,  but  I  couldn't  ha'  borne 
the  cheeld  away  from  the  churn  of  they  waves,  though 
I  pray  I  may  never  hear  it  again  now  he's  come." 

And  Pink  Toes,  born  within  the  sound  of  the  surges, 
tucked  finger  and  thumb  into  his  mouth  and  slept  in  the 
firelight.  And  Zack  slept,  too,  with  never  the  call  of  a 
seagull  to  break  his  rest. 

Thyrza  was  crying  softly. 

"There  now,"  said  Mrs.  Leggo,  "'tis  turned  'ee  up. 
I  didn't  ought  to  ha'  told  'ee.  Isn't  your  man  good  to  'ee, 
my  dear,  or  is  it  a  little  one  that's  gone?" 

"We've  had  a  quarrel,  and  I  fear  I've  lost  'en,"  said 
Thyrza.     "  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more." 

"  Is  it  another  woman,  my  dear?" 

Thyrza  gave  no  answer,  and  Mrs.  Leggo  continued — 

"  That's  bitterer  than  death,  they  do  say.  But  I  dunno 
that  'tis  so,  for  you  can  win  'en  back.  But  for  me,  when 
I  wake  in  the  night,  there's  naught  but  pillows  and  the 
thoughts  of  what  has  been.  If  I'm  ill,  there's  nobody 
to  say,  'Shall  I  make  a  cup  of  tea,  my  dear?'  Ay,  'tis 
bitter  to  ha'  quarrelled,  but  there,  your  man's  somewhere, 
after  all,  if  'tis  only  to  hold  on  to,  when  t'other  woman  isn't 
by.  'Tis  always  something  if  you  can  feel  a  man  near  'ee, 
if  'tis  only  that  you  can  scratch  'en.  He's  no  shadow,  and 
'tis  lonely  with  never  a  word,  nor  a  blow,  nor  a  sign." 


The  Bitter  Chalice  227 

"But  I've  lost  him  all  the  same." 

"  For  a  bit,  maybe.  But  just  you  bide  awhile,  and  he'll 
swing  round  and  want  'ee  same  as  ever.  A  man's  like 
a  clock  weight — left,  right,  he  goes  to,  first  one  and  then 
another — but  every  swing  he's  straight  once,  and  that's 
where  the  wife  can  catch  'en.  But  there,  'tis  time  you  was 
betsveen  the  sheets,  for  Tom'U  start  early." 

Thyrza  awoke  suddenly  in  the  night  and  lay  for  a 
moment  with  a  wildly  beating  heart,  for  from  the  cradle  by 
the  bed  came  a  child's  cry.  In  a  moment  she  was  standing 
with  the  little  one  in  her  arms,  in  the  ray  of  moonlight  that 
filtered  under  the  half-drawn  blind.  Mrs.  Leggo's  snore 
came  steadily  from  the  old  four-poster,  as  the  baby  hands, 
the  clinging  mouth,  the  soft  thud  of  little  feet,  fell  on 
Thyrza's  body.  Her  child  would  be  fatherless  like  this 
one — nay,  nameless  and  helpless,  but  for  her.  Bending  her- 
self over  the  child's  body,  like  an  aged  woman,  in  the 
yearning  of  her  loneliness.  Thyrza  carried  the  baby  to  its 
mother.  For  a  long  while  she  lay  listening  to  the  sound  of 
its  comforting,  with  throbs  of  pain  shaking  her  own  body 
from  head  to  foot.  Mrs.  Leggo  knew,  for  suddenly  fling- 
ing an  arm  round  the  tortured  woman,  she  said — 

"There,  there,  go  back  to  'en,  my  dear,  and  never  mind 
the  other  woman,  for  he's  more  than  just  a  man  to  'ee.  I 
can  see  that.  He's  arms  full  against  arms  empty,  and  that's 
life  and  death  to  a  woman  like  you." 

Before  full  daylight  Galsworthy  was  far  behind  Thyrza, 
and  by  the  afternoon  she  had  reached  Northam,  from  which 
it  was  understood  that  she  would  push  on  to  Bideford. 
Wandering  into  that  famous  churchyard  corner  at  Northam 
which  faces  the  bay,  she  stood  watching  the  sea  that  had 
somehow  been  calling  her  all  day. 

Eastward,  Baggy  faded  in  foam  of  spindrift;  westward, 
Hartland  towered  in  purple.     Between  them  the  grey  shore 


2  28  A  Man  of  Genius 

echoed  with  the  surges  that  break  against  the  barrier  of 
pebbles  and  curl  in  lines  of  foam  across  the  sandy  bar 
that  shifts  at  Torridge  mouth.  To  stand  overlooking 
Bideford  Bay-  is  to  hear  the  thunder-roll  of  eternity,  in- 
cessant, yet  non-insistent,  grey  with  the  greyness  of  iniSni- 
tude,  sombre  with  the  patience  of  the  ages,  yet  restful  to 
the  fret  of  breathing  life.  Miles  inland  the  organ  note  of 
that  great  volume  of  sea-sound  is  distinctly  audible;  at 
sea  it  moans  with  the  menace  of  an  unseen  force. 

Over  Thyrza's  head  the  branches  were  green  with  young 
leaves,  round  her  were  gravestones  with  mossy  lines.  In 
these  simple  things  quick  thought  came  to  birth  within  her: 
a  sense  of  the  birth  and  death  of  other  lives,  of  pain  often 
bravely  borne,  of  the  manifold  burgeoning  and  fading  of 
the  tree  of  human  life. 

Far  from  tears  now,  she  walked  out  to  the  flagstaff  which 
rises  from  a  heap  of  sixty  boulders,  each  marked  with  a 
name  from  the  muster  roll  of  great  sailors,  guardians  of  the 
waters  that  beat  upon  the  foreshore.  Drake,  Nelson, 
Raleigh,  Carew:  even  Thyrza  had  heard  such  names; 
something,  too,  she  knew  of  the  men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
who  in  the  whistle  of  the  shot  and  the  roar  of  the  waves 
had  obeyed  the  call  of  a  need  larger  than  the  desires  of 
their  own  lives. 

Below  the  steps  an  old  man  was  breaking  stones,  at  one 
and  sixpence  a  yard  of  broken  stuff,  which  must  be  three 
feet  high — breaking  stones  and  leaning  a  broken  thigh  that 
refused  to  remain  in  its  socket  on  an  old  sack.  Whistling 
he  was,  too,  between  whiles,  on  the  bit  of  bread  he  earned. 

Thyrza  understood  the  clarion  call  of  honour  that 
sounded  for  the  men  of  the  sea;  she  understood,  too,  the 
long  patience  of  steady  toil.  Slowly  to  her  the  dawn  was 
coming  in  the  sense  of  other  lives,  in  the  knowledge  that 
no  man  liveth  to  himself — or  dieth.    The  words  came  with 


The  Bitter  Chalice  229 

a  shock  that  revealed  the  thought  that  had  been  at  the  back 
of  her  mind  all  the  hours  since  she  had  tied.  With  dis- 
tinct knowledge  there  came,  too,  a  revulsion  from  the  idea. 
She  must  live  and  not  die;  for  the  life  within  her  was  a  call 
as  clear  as  any  clarion  note  of  patriotism  or  of  toil.  She 
must  seek  a  place  to  rest  in,  first,  for  the  long  ache  of 
weariness  racked  all  her  limbs. 

Then  she  turned  and  saw  Ambrose  coming  towards  her, 
with  the  light  from  the  sea  shining  full  on  the  old,  young 
face  that  his  night's  vigil  had  given  him.  They  stood 
gazing  silently  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  till  he  held  out 
his  arms,  and  with  a  stumbling  run  she  flew  to  him  and  was 
caught  and  held. 

"My  God!"  he  whispered,  "why  didn't  you  trust  me? 
Do  you  think  I  haven't  suffered,  too,  since  I  knew  ?" 

"  You  know,  Ambrose  ?" 

"Everything,  my  true  little  wife.  And  soon  to  be  a 
little  wife  with  a  real  wedding  ring  on  her  finger." 

"I've  spoilt  your  life  an>^ay.  And  she  cares — for  you, 
too." 

He  was  silent,  till  at  last  he  shook  off  his  absorption  in 
feigned  gaiety. 

"  And  now,  Thyrza,  a  square  meal,  a  drive  home  to 
Bradworthy,  and  then — Chrissie." 

Thyrza  dreaded  the  latter  item  more  than  tongue  could  tell ; 
but  she  knew  her  fears  were  groundless,  once  she  was  across 
the  Rosevears'  threshold  and  in  sight  of  her  hostess's  face. 

"Come  upstairs  this  minute,"  cried  Chrissie,  looking  at 
the  girl's  white  face;  "  the  kettle's  boiling,  and  I've  got  a  hot 
jar  ready  for  'ee  and  some  broth  I  can  warm  in  two  seconds. 
And,"  she  said  drily,  as  she  turned  to  Ambrose  in  the  door- 
way, "  I  reckon  tJiafs  your  way." 

That  was  apparently  across  the  green.  At  any  rate,  it 
was  the  direction  Ambrose  took,  none  saying  him  nay. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  RIDDLE  OF  THE  SPHINX 

*"^pHERE'S     some,'*    said     Chrissie    Rosevear,    "that 

1  wouldn't  skip  if  there  was  an  earthquake  about,  and 
there's  others  that  worrit  if  the  kettle's  likely  to  boil  over  in 
an  hour's  time.  I  dunno  which  sort's  the  most  wearing,  but 
I  reckon  both  go  to  a  boiling  or  they  wouldn't  be  here." 

Outside  thin  threads  of  smoke  from  the  chimneys  of 
Bradworthy  were  staining  the  clear  purity  of  the  summer 
sky.  Through  the  open  doorway  of  the  Rosevears'  kitchen, 
where  Thyrza  and  Chrissie  sat  sewing,  came  faint  whiffs  of 
sweetbriar,  as  the  cows  crossed  the  green  for  the  afternoon 
milking,  their  udders  swaying  in  time  to  the  rhythm  of 
their  pace. 

Chrissie  had  just  caught  sight  of  Damaris  Westaway 
driving  up  to  the  door  of  the  inn,  and  she  deduced  from 
that  fact  the  conclusion  that  she  had  come  on  an  errand 
connected  with  Thyrza 's  marriage,  which  was  to  take  place 
in  a  fortnight's  time.  For  Chrissie  was  a  mistress  of  the 
gift  commonly  called  by  the  learned  ex  pede  Herculem,  and 
she  could  assess  a  woman's  income  by  her  petticoat  frill, 
and  unlock  the  door  to  her  desires  by  the  feather  in  her 
hat.  It  is  a  social  gift  confined  to  no  class,  but  common 
to  femininity  itself.  For  the  most  stupid  woman  alive  is 
capable  of  blessing  or  banning  her  neighbour  on  the  evi- 
dence of  a  doorstep  or  a  lamp  globe. 

"Now,"  continued  Chrissie,  "if  there's  anything  that 
wants  doing,  Miss  Westaway  is  the  one  to  do  it.     If  her 

230 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  231 

thought  you'd  break  your  leg  to-morrow  at  two  sharp,  hcr'd 
be  there  at  half-past  one,  against  it  happened." 

"A  finger  in  every  pie,  that's  what  you  mean,"  said 
Thyrza,  whose  mood  was  one  of  resentment  towards 
Damaris  for  the  part  she  had  played  in  her  story. 

''Some  pies  are  the  better  for  a  finger  in  them,"  snapped 
Chrissie,  "though  they  scorch  a  body's  fingers,  too.  I 
always  lend  a  hand  when  I'm  asked;  but  Miss  Westaway'll 
walk  miles  to  see  if  aught  can  be  done.  For  her  won't 
rest  till  every  babby's  tubbed  constant,  and  every  bad  leg's 
tended  like  your  grandmother's.  But  for  all  her,  there  will 
be  bad  legs  in  damp  cottages,  and  children  with  the  thrush, 
if  they'm  fed  dirty.  And  sluts'll  be  with  us  till  the  judg- 
ment day." 

"But  getting  a  bit  sharpish,  is  Miss  Damaris,  by  what 
I  hear,"  said  Thyrza;  "they  say  she  won't  let  any  old 
grumble-guts  have  his  say  out  now,  but  catches  'en  up  quick 
with:  'There,  now,  there's  hundreds  in  a  worse  way  than 
you.'  And  allows  no  rory-tory  feathers  or  fallals,  same  as 
she  used  to  laugh  at  in  the  maidens." 

"A  maid  gets  like  that  with  no  Mr.  Right  coming  along," 
said  Chrissie  judicially,  "and  she  with  frills  to  her  petticoats 
six  inches  if  an  inch.  And  that's  husband-catching,  if 
anything  is.  But  they  must  ha'  lost  money  to  go  and  live 
at  Beckland,  and  everything  to  be  as  plain  as  plain,  so 
I  hear  tell." 

In  common  with  all  the  neighbourhood  Chrissie  believed 
that  the  Westaways  had  suddenly  lost  their  fortune.  Noth- 
ing else  could  have  caused  them  to  remove  to  such  a  "  wisht" 
place  as  Beckland. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  night  before  Damaris  knocked  at 
Chrissie's  door.  For  in  these  first  days  it  was  only  after  a 
great  effort  that  she  could  summon  up  courage  to  see  the 
girl  who  had  wrecked  so  many  fine  dreams.    For  Damaris, 


232  A  Man  of  Genius 


like  an  architect,  had  pictured  the  temple  she  would  build, 
had  seen  its  pillared  arches,  even  its  very  altar  lights,  the 
temple  of  Ambrose  Velly's  future.  Day  after  day  during 
the  past  winter  it  had  been  her  great  mental  preoccupation, 
what  her  father  could  do  for  Ambrose  when  at  last  Mr. 
Velly  had  gone.  Now  the  vision  had  been  struck  down 
by  the  hand  of  a  little  woman,  who  had  given  Ambrose 
what  he  valued  most  of  all,  the  soft  touches,  the  passion  of 
a  woman. 

Yet,  in  reality,  Damaris  knew  that  it  was  herself  that  she 
grieved  for,  herself  who  had  failed  in  her  woman's  power; 
for  the  bitterest  sting  that  a  woman  ever  knows  comes 
from  the  knowledge  that  she  has  failed  in  charm,  in  a 
power  that  the  lightest  fool  can  wield,  the  force  that  is 
denied  to  her  own  wit,  intelligence  and  mastery.  Deep 
down,  'tis  the  woman's  hell,  and  a  hell,  too,  that  some  of 
the  greatest  women  have  known. 

"Thyrza's  gone  upstairs  to  bed,"  said  Chrissie,  to  the 
visitor,  "but  I'll  call  her  down,  if  you  like." 

"No,  no;  don't  do  that.  I'd  rather  go  up  to  her,  if  you 
don't  mind,  Mrs.  Rosevear,"  said  Damaris.  "You've  been 
a  good  friend  to  her,  indeed." 

"If  I'd  been  a  better,  things  wouldn't  ha'  come  to  this 
pass,"  said  Chrissie  tartly,  for  in  the  career  of  benevolence 
she  felt  her  nose  rather  put  out  of  joint  by  Damaris  as  a 
rival  philanthropist. 

Damaris  ran  upstairs  and  tapped  at  Thyrza's  door.  All 
the  country  round  was  wrapped  in  the  dead  quiet  that  rests 
like  a  heavy  hand  on  a  sleepless  brain.  Somehow  Damaris 
felt  it  to  be  easier  to  touch  the  quick  of  things  on  a 
night  like  this,  when  everything  trivial  is  put  out  of 
sight. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  as  Thyrza's 
startled  eyes  met  hers  above  the  yellow  streak  of  candle- 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  233 

light  that  faintly  irradiated  the  blue  shadows  of  the  little 
whitewashed  room. 

"Come  over  to  the  window-seat,"  she  went  on,  wrapping 
the  rug  from  the  bed  around  Thyrza's  white-clad  body. 
''I've  got  something,  some  plan  to  propose  to  you." 

"Oh,  how  soft  and  warm  you  are,  child!"  she  exclaimed, 
as  the  girl's  stiff  body,  at  first  rigid  from  shyness,  gradually 
relaxed  into  restfulness  in  her  arms.  Damaris  was  deliber- 
ately encouraging  all  the  kindness  towards  Thyrza  that 
she  could  manage  to  call  up  in  herself. 

"You  didn't  sleep  last  night,  I  believe?"  said  Thyrza, 
looking  up  at  her,  and  thinking  that  she  looked  as  beautiful 
as  the  moon-crescent  that  scudded  across  the  sky  outside 
between  the  flying  clouds. 

"I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  you,  Thyrza, 
lately,  and  wondering  how  I  could  help  you  and  Ambrose." 

"I  don't  see  what  call  there  is  for  you  to  bother  about 
us.  We'll  rub  along  somehow,  I  reckon.  An.>'way,  we've 
no  claim  on  you." 

"Ah,  but  it's  that  'rubbing  along'  that  I  want  to  prevent 
if  I  can.     I  want  things  to  be  all  right  for  both  of  you." 

"For  him  you  mean,"  said  Thyrza,  restlessly  trying  to 
free  herself  from  Damaris's  arms. 

"And  for  you,  because  you  belong  to  him,"  said  Damaris 
truthfully.  "After  you're  married,  you  and  he,  I  want  you 
to  come  to  live  with  my  father  and  me  at  Beckland,  while 
Ambrose  goes  away  to  his  work  and  gets  on  with  it  for  a 
few  months." 

"To  live  with  you?"  said  Thyrza  wonderingly.  "What 
for?" 

"As  my  friend,  to  be  my  friend.  You  know  I  shall  have 
to  do  all  the  housework  there;  for  we're  going  to  live  like 
quite  poor  people.  You  can  help  me  if  you  like,  but  I 
want  you  to  stay  with  me." 

/' 


234  A  Man  of  Genius 

"You  want  to  make  me  a  lady?" 

"I  want  to  make  you  a  good,  true  woman,  Thyrza." 

"Ay,  I've  not  been  that,  for  it  wasn't  all  his  fault.  I 
wanted  'en  terrible,  and  I've  heard  folks  say  'tis  as  certain 
a  thing  as  death  and  taxes  when  a  man  loves  'ee." 

She  was  trying  clumsily  to  soothe  the  pain  she  divined 
in  Damaris. 

"We'll  put  all  that  behind  us,"  said  Damaris;  "let  it  be 
as  though  it  had  never  been  and  begin  again — a  new  life, 
a  life  of  honour  and  noble  things.  We'll  start  on  your 
wedding  day,  and  look  forward,  never  backward.  And 
you'll  come  to  live  with  me?  I  thought  you  might  go 
away  with  Ambrose  for  a  week  and  then,  when  he  goes  on 
to  Bideford,  you  can  come  straight  to  me.  I  shall  be  very 
glad  to  have  you,  for  Beckland  will  be  lonely  at  first. 
Still,  we've  all  the  summer  before  us." 

"I  don't  like  to.  But  I  could  do  the  rough  work  for 
'ee;  you've  never  been  used  to  that." 

"Then,  that's  settled  and — I'm  going  to  give  you  your 
wedding  dress.  I  shall  get  it  made  for  you  and  come  over 
and  see  you  married  in  it." 

"Oh,  you  are  good,"  said  Thyrza,  lifting  her  lips  shyly 
to  Damaris's  cheek. 

They  sat  for  a  long  time,  thinking  of  the  unseen  love 
that  lay  at  the  back  of  all  this. 

"I  want  you  to  listen  to  something  that  matters  very 
much,"  said  Damaris  at  last.  "You  know  the  world  is 
mostly  carried  on  by  men." 

"  Oh,  I  hate  'em — deep  down.  They  don't  know  anything 
about  what  it  feels  to  be  a  woman.  They  only  feel  any- 
thing once  in  an  hour,  and  a  woman  feels  all  the 
time. 

Thyrza  was  not  far  wrong;  if  Nature  had  seen  fit  to 
make  man  on  the  same  day  as  woman,  so  that  they  might 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  235 

have  understood  one  another  occasionally,  this  vale  of 
tears  would  have  been  lightened  of  half  its  misery. 

''Yet  you  told  me  once,"  said  Damaris,  "that  you 
minded  them  no  more  than  angle-twitches.  But  listen  to 
me.  Men  grow  the  food  for  us  and  carry  it  where  it  is 
wanted.  They  teach  and  they  fight  and  they  make  the 
laws  and  carry  them  out." 

''My  daddy,"  said  Thyrza,  "used  to  say  that  the  law  is 
crueller  than  a  poacher's  gin." 

"So  it  may  be.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  what 
I'm  going  to  say.  It's  this:  there's  only  one  thing  the 
world  in  general  asks  of  us  women.  And  it's  the  greatest 
thing  that  the  world  needs;  greater  than  laws,  than  food, 
than  medicine,  than  books,  or  beautiful  buildings." 

Thyrza  opened  the  eyes  of  a  perplexed  rabbit,  and 
Damaris  pressed  her  lips  to  the  little  curved  bow  beneath 
her  own. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is,  Thyrza?" 

Thyrza  shook  her  head  in  awe-stricken  silence. 

"It's  men  and  women,"  said  Damaris  with  a  break  in 
her  voice.  "Little  men  and  women;  clean,  rosy,  and 
strong,  full  of  good  brains  and  fine  blood.  It's  what  you 
have  under  your  heart,  child." 

The  two  women  clung  together  passionately.  Thyrza 
understood  perfectly. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  with  trembling  lips. 

"Yes,  but  listen,"  said  Damaris,  anxiously;  "to  give  this 
to  the  world  means  noble  women,  not  animals  merely  who 
bear  and  suckle,  but  women  with  pure  thoughts  and  great 
hearts.  Child,  do  you  know  the  world's  full  of  pain  and 
misery  that  can  only  be  bettered  by  great  men  and  women 
— a  new  race,  finer  than  any  known  before  ?  There's  food 
enough,  clothes  enough,  enough  of  everything  but  fine 
human  beings." 


236  A  Man  of  Genius 

''Why  aren't  they  here?" 

"Because  we're  little,  mean,  paltry,  we  women.  We've 
never  risen  to  the  call  of  the  world.  We've  borne  the 
children  the  men  give  us  ignobly,  ignorantly,  as  slaves,  not 
free  women." 

But  Thyrza  could  not  follow  this. 

''I'd  fight  for  it,"  she  said;  "I  know  that.  I  wanted  it. 
I  want  it  now." 

For  a  second's  space  Damaris  looked  forward  with  dis- 
may to  the  task  before  her  in  the  months  to  come,  the 
attempt  to  lead  this  little  summer  fly  to  the  level  of  life's 
great  argument.  Then  her  heart  smote  her,  for  how  could 
this  child  be  expected  to  look  backwards  and  forwards,  as 
a  trained  mind  would,  over  the  human  story?  How  could 
she  know  how  to  gain  strength  for  hard  things  by  imper- 
sonal thought  ?  Even  in  her  own  trouble  the  comfort  to  be 
derived  from  lifting  the  eyes  to  the  hills  was  only  momen- 
tary, just  the  obhvion  of  a  second's  unconsciousness  to  a 
soul  on  the  rack.    She  would  try  the  plain  truth. 

"Do  you  love  Ambrose?"  she  asked. 

"Iss,  dearly,"  nodded  Thyrza. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Damaris,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"Then  why  don't  'ee  take  'en?  Oh,  you  could  if  you 
tried.  There's  nobody  in  the  world  he  thinks  so  great  as 
you.  He  told  me  how  John  Darracott  come  to  'ee,  and 
how  you  sent  'en  to  me  that  night,  when  I  tried  to  die." 

"Thyrza,  do  you  know,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  be  proud 
to  think  how  men  so  good  as  John  Darracott  think  of  me." 

"He  doesn't  know  this — bad  thing  of  me,  does  he?" 

"  No,  Thyrza.  He  only  knows  you're  going  to  be  married. 
He  went  away,  I  hear,  last  week." 

"He's  good,"  said  Thyrza,  thinking  how  once  she  had 
tried  to  help  so  strong  a  man.  It  was  the  sweetest  memory 
in  her  life. 


i 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  237 

"And,"  she  said,  ''he's  written  it  all  out,  what  he  did 
that  night,  I  mean.     So  everybody  knows?" 

"Yes,"  said  Damaris,  quietly. 

"Oh,  I've  been  bad,  I've  been  bad,"  sobbed  Thyrza. 

"I  never  can  go  back  over  the  road.  Even  John  Darra- 
cott's  deceived  in  me.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  died  that  day! 
But  I  couldn't.     Life  was  too  strong  in  me." 

"And,"  said  Damaris,  firmly,  "there's  another  life  that, 
I  trust,  was  too  strong  for  you.  For  your  child  is  now  the 
task  you  have  before  you.  Give  him  every  gift  you  can; 
strength  and  health  and  purity  of  thought." 

"What,  you  ask  that  of — me,  when  you  know  what  I've 
done?" 

"I  ask  it  of  you  the  more,  for  it  is  your  atonement;  the 
only  one  you  can  ofifer,  and  the  most  splendid  that  anybody 
could  offer.      Will  you  try,  Thyrza?" 

"Why  do  you  take  all  this  trouble  to  help  me?" 

"Because  I  love  Ambrose  too  well  to  see  him  drag  any- 
one to  the  low  levels  of  things,  because  I  know  he  will  have 
a  splendid  life,  if  we  women  let  him." 

"And  so  you  won't  Hft  a  finger  to  have  'en,  though  you 
could,  for  he's  took  the  cream  off  me?  Eh,  my  Lord;  I 
couldn't  have  done  what  you  have;  I  couldn't  never  ha' 
done  it.  But  I  will  try,  same  as  I  would  ha'  tried  alone,  if 
you  hadn't  fetched  me  back." 

All  along  the  roadway  of  existence  march  the  human 
lives,  each  with  a  little  glow-worm  of  light,  called  personal 
happiness.  Some  never  see  more  than  their  own  beam  of 
happiness,  and  the  many  millions  walking  the  same  way  are 
but  to  them  as  shadows.  Such  folk  are  the  happiest;  for  to 
see  the  other  lights,  to  watch  how  one  obscures  the  other's 
joy,  is  to  multiply  the  possibilities  of  pain  a  hundredfold, 
even  though  it  may  steel  the  heart  with  courage  to  bear. 

Damaris  lay  awake  many  hours  that  night  in  her  bed  at 


238  A  Man  of  Genius 

the  inn,  for  she  knew  that  Thyrza's  words  were  true,  that 
had  she  chosen  to  fight,  she  might  have  driven  Thyrza  to 
the  wall — had  she  chosen  to  thrust  aside  all  pity,  that  is. 
She  recognized  frankly  that  she  was  putting  away  her  own 
happiness  for  the  sake  of  the  principle  for  which  women 
have  sacrificed  so  much,  for  the  one  law  that  is  woman- 
made,  the  law  of  monogamy.  And  yet,  not  so;  it  was  for 
Ambrose's  honour  and  Thyrza's  salvation,  for  the  unborn 
child  especially,  that  she  was  willing  to  take  suffering  herself. 
For  all  laws  come  to  women  in  the  form  of  hearts  that 
agonise  and  shame  that  stings. 

In  the  country  peace  a  London  picture  returned  to  her, 
death-white  with  electric  glare:  the  picture  of  a  woman, 
fair  and  vivid,  dressed  in  white,  waiting  at  the  edge  of  the 
pavement  for  her  night's  engagement,  watching  with  keen 
eyes  each  man  who  passed  in  those  hours  when  the  wreckage 
of  the  sea  of  human  life  comes  Uppermost.  To  leave  Thyrza 
hopeless  would  have  been  to  plunge  her  into  that  nameless 
sea.  Even  for  the  sake  of  her  own  hunger,  Damaris  knew 
she  could  never  do  it. 

Thus  she  learnt  the  meaning  of  the  wisest  words  ever 
written,  the  true  answer  to  the  riddle  of  txie  Sphinx:  ap pren- 
dre a  souffrir,  apprendre  h  mourir,  c'est  la  gymnastique  de 
rEternite,  c^est  le  noviciat  immortel,  even  while  in  her  ears 
sounded  the  patter  of  tiny  feet  so  longed  for,  even  while 
to  her  body  came  in  thought  the  clasp  of  comrade  arms — 
comrade  arms,  yet  sweet  with  a  nearness  that  no  mere 
comradeship  can  ever  give. 

Damaris  carried  Thyrza  back  with  her  the  next  morning 
to  stay  at  Beckland  for  a  few  days  that  she  might  see  her 
future  home.  And  right  glad  was  Chrissie  that  she  had 
gone,  when  on  the  following  Saturday  she  saw  Mrs.  Velly 
approaching  her  cottage,  the  van  from  which  she  had  just 
alighted  disappearing  round  the  corner  of  the  inn. 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  239 

''My  dear  days,"  said  Chrissie  to  herself,  "now  the  fat's 
in  the  fire,  for  missus'll  never  take  a  marriage  hke  this  easy, 
not  she.  But,  thank  the  Lord,  Thyrza'll  not  be  home  till 
late  to-night.  Not  for  all  the  king's  gold  would  I  have  had 
they  two  meet  just  yet." 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Mrs.  Velly  had  acknowl- 
edged to  herself  that  she  was  an  old  w'oman,  with  her  grip 
on  life  perceptibly  slackening,  when  Ambrose  had  curtly 
announced  his  approaching  marriage  to  Thyrza.  Pushed 
aside  like  a  dead  log,  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  bitter  tighten- 
ing of  the  lips.  The  great  preoccupation  of  her  thoughts, 
the  sale  at  the  farm,  faded  completely  from  her  mind, 
though  before  it  had  seemed  like  a  testing  of  her  life's 
efficiency,  when  all  her  household  gear  would  be  exposed 
to  the  gaze  of  strangers.  It  was  the  secret  history  of  the 
last  month  that  she  was  most  bent  on  knowing,  for  that 
Ambrose  had  lied  to  her  when  he  denied  having  met 
Thyrza  was,  of  course,  evident. 

But  Chrissie  would  know!  Chrissie  was,  however,  equally 
determined  that  Mrs.  Velly,  at  any  rate,  should  not  know. 

"So,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear,  as  she  seated  her  visitor, 
"you'm  to  have  a  wedding  quick  upon  top  of  a  funeral. 
Leastways,  we  shall  have  it,  I  should  say." 

"Chrissie,  I  think  you've  behaved  shabbily,  and  that  I'll 
say  freely.  If  you'll  believe  me,  I  never  heard  a  word  of 
it,  till  it  was  all  arranged." 

"You  don't  say  so,  missus?  He's  been  down  here,  too, 
pretty  constant." 

"Then  you  might  have  warned  me." 

"I  never  knowed  a  word  about  marriage  till  just  a  matter 
of  ten  days  ago.  And  that  I  can  say  true." 

"'Tis  a  poor  talc.  Thyrza  Braund's  not  the  wife  for  my 
son." 

"Don't  'ee  like  it  then,   missus?     Her's  not  exactlv  a 


240  A  Man  of  Genius 

managing  sort  of  woman,  'tis  true;  but  there,  it  might  ha' 
been  worse.  Languishing  her  be,  and  husband-high,  and 
all  the  brains '11  run  to  milk  for  a  good  half-dozen  years. 
But  her  might  have  been  a  maid  that  looked  all  ways  for 
Christmas,  with  a  squint;  for  you  never  know  who  he'll  fix 
upon,  when  once  a  man's  looking  out." 

"A  squint  in  the  eyes,  you  mean,  Chrissie;  and  what's 
that  to  a  squint  in  the  nature.  I  tell  you  I'm  not  happy 
about  it.  There's  something  behind  all  this,  for  it  to  have 
been  kept  so  quiet.  And  I  warned  him  against  her.  The 
girl's  soft,  and  he  wants  a  wife  as  hard  as  nails.  There's 
something  behind  all  this." 

''There  mostly  is,  missus." 

''Not  the  same  as  there  is  here,  Chrissie,"  said  Mrs. 
Velly  firmly.  "A  pack  of  chillern  he'll  soon  have,  and  that'll 
be  ruination  to  all  the  fine  plans  he's  so  full  of." 

"Well,  I  never!  said  Mrs.  Rosevear,  looking  round 
frantically  for  a  distraction,  now  that  her  visitor  was  coming 
to  the  point. 

It  came,  like  a  flash  of  inspiration,  in  the  shape  of  fat 
Mrs.  Vaggers  waddhng  across  the  common.  "He  might 
have  started  in  at  once  with  a  family,  as  Mrs.  Vaggers  over 
there  did. 

"Mrs.  Vaggers!"  she  shouted  down  the  street.  "Mrs. 
Vaggers,  my  dear,  come  in  here  and  tell  Mrs.  Velly  how 
you  got  took  in." 

The  black-eyed,  lusty  woman,  her  eyes  shining  with  good 
humour,  turned  back,  and  leaning  her  hand  on  the  low  half- 
door,  flashed  her  strong,  white  teeth  in  a  gleam  of  laughter. 

"Come  in,  Mrs.  Vaggers,  come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Rosevear, 
unhasping  the  door,  while  Mrs.  Velly  glowered  sullenly  at 
the  visitor.  She  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  Chrissie 
wished  for  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  in  order  to  avoid 
awkward  questions. 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  241 

"Got  took  in,"  said  Mrs.  \' aggers;  "you  mean  by  my 
Sam?  Law,  I've  told  it  so  often.  You  must  be  tired  o' 
hearing  of  it." 

"Go  on,  my  dear,"  persisted  Chrissie. 

"Well,"  she  said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Velly.  "I  come  down 
to  Dartmouth  to  help  my  first  man  keep  the  'Jolly  Sailors,' 
which  is  more  of  a  seaman's  lodging-house  than  aught  else. 
So  I  seed  a  deal  o'  men,  one  way  and  the  other;  and  when 
I  was  widow  and  looking  around  a  bit,  I  thought  to  myself 
that  it  would  need  a  sharp  chap  to  take  me  in." 

"And  were  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Velly  politely. 

"Shameful.  First  there  come  two  or  three  that  I  didn't 
take  no  stock  in.  And  then  come  Sam."  She  paused 
dramatically.  "I  thought  I  liked  the  looks  of  'en,  but 
after  he'd  been  nibbling  a  bit,  so  to  say,  I  didn't  feel  exactly 
sure  of  'en,  till  one  day  he  comes  and  says,  'Little  wife,' 
tender-like.  Then  thought  I,  'That's  talking,  that  is.' 

"Now  it  so  happened  that  Sam  and  I  were  sitting  down 
one  on  each  side  of  the  fire,  with  the  picture  of  my  first  up 
over  the  mantelpiece.  Now  Sam  was  a  bit  suspicious  of 
me,  for  he  knowed  I  was  a  widow  and  thought  there  might 
have  been  more  besides,  and  at  last  he  put  it  plain. 

"'There  isn't  any  behinds,  is  there,  Liza?' 

"And  with  the  words  down  came  the  picture  of  my  first 
scat  on  the  rug  betwixt  us.  And  then  I  thought,  it  shall  be 
a  sign,  for  if  he  says  a  word  against  that  dear,  good,  sainted 
man,  I  won't  have  'en.  But  he  didn't,  for  he  just  picked  up 
the  picture  and  wiped  ofif  the  dust  from  the  glass,  for  it  was 
all  cracked  across  the  face. 

"'Never  mind,  Liza,'  says  he.  'I'll  get  'ee  a  new  glass 
to-morrow.' 

"And  I  said,  'Sam,  I'll  have  'ee,  for  you're  a  good  man.' 

"The  very  next  week  he  had  to  go  to  hospital,  for  he'd 
had  yellow  jack  twice,  and  it  left  'en  queer.  And  one  night 
16 


242  A  Man  of  Genius 

matron  sent  for  me  to  sit  up  with  'en,  for  they  had  a  press 
of  work.  And  'twas  a  mercy  that  I  did,  for  being  off  his 
head  he  talked  a  deal,  and  by  his  talk  he  had  enough  behind 
en  to  scare  any  woman." 

''A  wife?"  asked  Mrs.  Velly. 

"And  chillern,  my  dear.  And  how  many  it  was,  whether 
four  or  forty,  I  couldn't  make  out.  But  when  he  come 
out  of  hospital  I  charged  'en  with  it  plain,  and  he  couldn't 
deny  it. 

'"Liza,  it's  true,'  he  said,  *but  I  couldn't  bring  my 
tongue  to  tell  'ee.  But  her's  been  dead  nigh  upon  a  year. 
That  I  swear.  Come  up  to  Plymouth,  and  I'll 
prove  it.'" 

''And  you  went?" 

"I  did.  I  was  bound  to  see  the  outs  of  it  now.  And  a 
cheerful  sort  of  day  we  had  to  Plymouth.  First  to  the 
cemetery  we  went,  and  then  he  took  me  to  the  woman 
who'd  nursed  his  wife,  and  said  she — 

"'A  beautiful  corpse  she  made.  Made  flowers,  forget- 
me-nots,  stuck  all  roimd  her  face,  too,  and  heartsease,  like 
watered  silk,  on  the  frills  of  her  coffin.  For  he's  a  good 
man,  is  Sam,  and  the  best  of  biscuits  and  peppermint 
water,  as  hot  as  hot,  to  the  funeral. ' " 

"And  the  chillern?" 

"I  sort  of  shied  off  'em  at  first.  Then  he  took  me  to 
see  the  eldest  boy — he  lived  as  errand-boy  to  a  grocer. 

"  'Now,'  says  Sam,  'we'll  go  and  look  for  Maria.  I've 
boarded  her.'  When  this  had  been  going  on  for  hours,  or 
so  it  seemed,  I  said  all  of  a  burst — 

'"Sam,  for  goodness  sake,  how  many  is  it?' 

"'Six,  Liza,'  says  he,  just  as  sudden,  'not  counting  the 
baby.' 

"'Which  makes  seven,'  said  I,  all  weak-like.  I  didn't 
know  where  to  look,  or  what  to  do,  that's  flat.    But  as  I 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  243 

worked  through  that  family  it  seemed  they  got  weaker  and 
dirtier  and  thinner.  And  the  little  maid,  the  baby,  finished 
it.  A  poor  little  thin  soul,  with  a  peaked  face  you  could 
barely  see  for  the  dirt  of  it,  and  bones  pretty  nigh  coming 
through  the  skin.  Bound  for  Kingdom  Come  plain  enough 
if  her  stayed  with  the  hussy  he'd  paid  to  look  after  her. 
The  little  thing  just  cuddled  into  me  with  a  sigh,  and  shut 
her  eyes  all  peaceful-like,  when  I  took  her." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room,  but  the  mother-heart  of 
a  childless  woman  spoke  quite  clearly, 

''I  took  'em  all  home  save  the  eldest,"  Mrs.  Vaggers 
went  on  quietly,  "and  by  the  time  I'd  got  the  baby  in  a 
tub  of  hot  water,  with  the  soapsuds  flying,  and  her  sauce- 
pan of  milk  on  the  fire,  I  saw  plain. 

"'Here,'  I  said  to  Sam,  who  sot  and  sot,  looking  sheepish 
on  the  edge  of  a  chair,  'get  out  of  this,  and  go  and  have 
the  banns  put  up  at  once,  for  if  I'm  to  be  the  mother  of 
seven,  I'd  better  see  the  thing  through  proper.  For  'tis 
bare  decent  as  'tis.  And  don't  you  let  me  set  eyes  on  'ee 
till  'tis  over.'" 

Just  then  a  little  pinafored  maid,  as  fat  as  a  round  rabbit, 
raced  by  the  corner  of  the  cottage. 

"There's  the  baby,"  said  Chrissie,  hurrying  out. 
"There's  peeper's!  there's  diments!"  said  she,  setting  Sam's 
youngest  on  the  cottage  table.  The  little  one's  kiss  was  as 
sweet  as  the  honey-butter  scent  of  the  gorse  in  the  moor 
wind.  And  Mrs.  Vaggers  was  happy,  for  the  way  of  a 
childless  woman  is  strange;  but  the  way  of  a  man  with  his 
house  to  keep  in  order  is  wondrous  cunning. 

"Ay,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  as  Mrs.  Vaggers  took  her  leave, 
"that's  all  very  well.  Putting  me  off,  that's  what  you're 
doing.  For  that  I'm  sure  of.  There's  something  wrong 
behind  it  all.  Out  of  Ambrose  there's  not  a  word  to  be 
got.     And  what  I  should  like  to  know  is  why  Miss  West- 


244  A  Man  of  Genius 

away's  meddling.  Why  should  my  son's  wife  go  to  live 
with  her?  Chrissie,  has  it  been  all  straight  up  and  down 
courtship  or — is  he  forced  to  it?" 

"There  now,"  cried  Mrs.  Rosevear,  bustling  away,  "that 
fire's  going  home,  and  John '11  be  back  in  less  than  ten 
minutes.  You'll  stay  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  won't  'ee, 
missus?" 

But  Mrs.  Velly  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  got  in  my  mind  to  do?"  she 
asked  slowly.  "There's  a  little  two-roomed  cottage  up  at 
Beckland,  close  to  where  Miss  Damaris  Westaway's  going 
to  keep  my  son's  wife  to  live.  I  shall  go  there.  'Tis  as 
cheap  a  place  as  I  shall  get  anywhere.  I've  been  kept  out 
of  things  that  concern  my  own  son.  I'm  bound  to  know 
the  rights  of  it — and  I  shall  know  if  I  go  to  Beckland,  for 
there  is  but  three  houses  there  in  all,  each  but  a  couple 
of  stones'  throw  from  one  another.  I'll  be  at  their  very 
doorstep." 

"If  'twas  me,  I  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  round  a  corner 
where  I  thought  there  was  trouble  waiting,"  said  Mrs. 
Rosevear. 

"That's  not  my  way,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  "for  I'd  feel  it 
was  there,  if  I  didn't  look.  And  after  all,  by  looking  I 
might  prove  it  wasn't  there." 

"'Tis  mostly  there,"  said  Chrissie  significantly,  "but  I'd 
rather  not  know.  I'm  like  the  woman  who  heard  her 
husband  talking  in  his  sleep  and  calling  out,  'Polly,  my 
dear,'  her  own  name  being  Sally.  'Wake  up,  John,'  said 
she,  digging  'en  in  the  ribs,  'wake  up  and  don't  be  a  fool.' 
A  wise  woman  that,  for  if  her'd  listened  more,  her  might 
have  known  more." 

"Chrissie,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  quietly,  "you  know  my 
meaning  all  this  time.  Is  it  all  straight,  as  far  as  you  know, 
between  my  son  and  that  girl?" 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  245 

"'Tis  but  an  old  maggot  you've  got  in  your  head,"  pro- 
tested Mrs.  Rosevear. 

''Chrissie,  is  it  all  straight  as  far  as  you  know?"  repeated 
Mrs.  Velly  solemnly. 

"So  far  as  I  know  'tis  all  as  straight  as  my  first  man's 
eyes,"  said  Chrissie  quietly.  "And  cross-eyed  they  was  to 
be  sure,"  she  added  to  herself. 

But  Mrs.  Velly  had  never  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Mrs.  Rosevear's  first  husband,  and  thus  the  cryptic  meaning 
was  hidden  from  her.     She  departed  somewhat  comforted. 

"May  the  Lord  forgive  me,"  said  Chrissie  to  herself,  as 
she  watched   the  carrier's  cart  drive  out  of  the  village. 

"But  what's  the  good  of  stirring  up  ill-blood  anyway?" 
she  continued,  "and  Jim  Braund's  daughter  couldn't  be 
expected  to  set  more  store  on  'Will  'ee  have  this  woman?' 
on  a  passon's  lips  than  any  old  seagull." 

In  the  watches  of  the  night  it  occurred  to  her  that  she 
had  been  extraordinarily  clever.  She  chuckled  till  she  woke 
her  husband. 

"Chrissie,"  said  he  crossly,  "what  be  'bout?  The  bed's 
heaving  like  a  ground  sea  under  a  man." 

"And  I  didn't  say  more  than  the  truth,"  she  murmured 
ecstatically,  paying  no  attention  to  his  plaints. 

On  the  morning  of  the  wedding  Damaris  drove  over  to 
Bradworthy.  As  she  entered  the  room  where  the  bride 
was  dressing,  she  found  Thyrza  standing  in  front  of  the 
looking-glass,  gazing  ruefully  at  her  own  image.  Hearing 
the  noise  of  the  opening  door  she  turned,  exclaiming — 

"Oh,  look  at  this  grey  rag  that  you've  made  me  wear! 
It  makes  me  a  proper  old  guy.  I'll  not  go  to  church  in  it. 
I'll  not  be  seen  in  it.     I  believe  you  got  it  to  spite  me." 

Then  she  flung  herself,  face  downwards,  on  the  bed.  It 
was  true  enough,  as  Damaris  confessed  to  herself,  that  the 
plain  grey  dress  ought  to  have  been  exchanged  for  rose- 


246  A  Man  of  Genius 

pink.  The  child  was  now  a  rosebud  set  in  the  sheath  of  a 
pale  jonquil.  To  Damaris,  who  had  been  nerving  herself 
for  the  painful  ordeal  at  the  church,  this  was  a  totally 
unexpected  tragedy. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  ''that  I  made  such  a  mistake. 
See,  I've  brought  you  a  present  from  father,  the  loveliest 
white  lilies  he  could  get." 

Thyrza  wriggled  pettishly  away  from  the  hand  on  her 
shoulder. 

"Oh,"  she  sobbed,  tapping  her  foot  furiously  against  the 
bottom  of  the  bed,  ''you're  always  right,  you're  the  pink  of 
perfection  and  I'm  as  common  as  dirt.  I  won't  do  any- 
thing you  ask.    I  won't  be  married." 

Damaris  stood  for  a  moment,  realising,  as  she  had  not 
done  before,  the  magnitude  of  the  task  she  had  under- 
taken. 

"Thyrza,"  whispered  Damaris  at  last,  "think  of  how 
you're  going  to  be  with  the  man  you  love  so  dearly.  And 
after  a  little  while  you'll  be  with  him  always.  When  I 
think  of  the  lonely  women  there  are  in  the  world,  I  Hke  to 
think  of  those  who  have  a  joy  like  yours." 

Her  voice  broke,  and  Thyrza  looked  up. 

"Are  you  going  to  spoil  it  all  for  the  sake  of  a  dress, 
you  who  were  so  brave  when  you  thought  of  giving  him 
up  ?   Think  of  how  terrible  things  might  have  been  for  you." 

"Because  I'm  so  bad,  you  mean?" 

"No;  because  you  were  reckless.  There's  a  far  bigger 
debt  to  pay  in  this  world  for  recklessness  than  for  real 
wickedness." 

"Grapes  are  sour,  I  reckon.  That's  why  you  run  me 
down."  Something  like  hate  gleamed  out  of  the  feverish 
eyes  that  watched  her  mentor.  "You  hadn't  the  chance 
of 'en.    I  had,  and  I  took  it,  and  I'm  glad  I  did.    So  there!" 

Thyrza  stood  pettishly  twisting  the  lace  on  the  white 


The  Riddle  of  the  Sphinx  247 

silk  blouse  that  was  the  only  sartorial  satisfaction  of  the 
day. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  to  herself,  ''she's  perfect,  she  is.  She 
never  tells  crams;  she  can  talk  French  and  keep  her  temper. 
And  I've  said  I'll  go  and  Hve  with  her." 

With  trembling  hands  she  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
grey  hat  on  the  bed,  touching  it  gently  with  her  fingertips. 

''I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  turning  suddenly  to  Damaris,  who 
stood  watching  her.  "Only  this  day  seems  so  sad  some- 
how. It's  all  gone  wrong,  and  I  dread  to  see  his  very  face 
to-day.    But  I'll  never  be  bad  to  'ee  again.    Never." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Damaris.  "But  it'll  be  all  right, 
once  you're  away  with  him.  See,  I  shall  pour  eau-de- 
Cologne  into  this  water,  and  then  you  must  bathe  your 
eyes  thoroughly." 

The  little  face,  cold  and  scented,  was  held  up  a  few 
minutes  later  for  the  kiss  of  repentance. 

"You  mustn't  get  into  such  rages,  Thyrza." 

"Mother  used  to  sclum  father's  face." 

"But  Ambrose  wouldn't  like  that,"  protested  Damaris. 

"He's  got  too  beautiful  a  face  to  be  sclummed,  I  reckon," 
said  Thyrza  dimpling. 

Soon  aftenvards  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard,  where  the 
light  lay  golden  across  the  path,  Damaris  stood  watching 
them  start  for  their  week  together.  Suddenly  Ambrose 
turned  and,  standing  bareheaded  in  front  of  her  for  a 
moment,  caught  her  hand.  In  that  moment  there  flashed 
across  him  the  knowledge  that  other  things,  besides  his 
mother's  ease  of  mind,  were  being  sacrificed  for  Thyrza's 
honour. 

"How  can  I  pay  back?"   he  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"When  the  vision  stands  in  stone  ever}'thing  will  be 
paid,"  she  said,  turning  quickly  away  lest  he  should  see 
her  eyes  too  closely. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  MANES  OF  THE  MIGHTY  DEAD 

THE  two  partners  of  the  firm  of  Trevithick  and  Jerman, 
architects  and  land  surveyors,  which  Ambrose  had 
joined  as  "improver,"  were  known  in  Bideford  as  Dignity 
and  Impudence,  or  the  Lion  and  the  Rat,  for  the  junior 
partner,  who  could  not  possibly  be  called  a  mouse,  found 
his  work  cut  out  for  him  in  the  task  of  releasing  Mr.  Trev- 
ithick from  all  manner  of  financial  snares  into  which 
he  was  driven  by  his  easy-going  nature.  The  firm  had 
a  first  class  reputation  for  thorough  workmanship;  it 
was  also,  which  is  by  no  means  always  a  logical  conclusion, 
on  a  good  business  footing,  thanks  to  the  smartness  of 
the  rat,  Mr.  Jerman. 

The  motto  of  a  small  country  town  is  usually,  *Tf  I 
don't  get  there  to-day,  I  shall  to-morrow,"  but  there  was 
nothing  of  that  spirit  about  Trevithick  and  Jerman,  as 
long,  at  least,  as  the  junior  partner  was  about;  for  then 
everything  in  the  great  house,  with  its  plate  glass  and 
polished  windows,  ran  on  oiled  wheels,  including  even  the 
great  terrors  of  the  country  architect,  the  pupils.  Then 
even  Dicky  Dick,  otherwise  Mr.  Richard  Cobbledick,  the 
gay  dog  of  the  students'  room,  put  his  tail  between  his  legs 
and  humbly  plied  the  pencil  and  red-rubber  of  his  pro- 
fession. Especially  the  red-rubber,  it  may  be  said  in  pass- 
ing, for  he  was  a  hopelessly  inaccurate  person,  and  only 
remained  in  the  business  because  his  father  was  a  rich  man 
and  had  paid  a  particularly  large  premium  for  him. 

*48 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     249 

From  the  corner  of  the  pupils'  quarters  which  had  been 
assigned  to  Ambrose  he  could  catch  the  tones  of  Mr. 
Jerman's  voice  as  he  interviewed  the  cHents  in  his  private 
room.  Dicky  Dick  called  that  room,  indeed,  the  rough 
filter-bed,  for  the  first  interview  with  a  prospective  client 
always  took  place  there,  and  was  of  a  monetary  character 
chiefly.  If  that  aspect  of  the  case  seemed  satisfactory,  the 
visitor  went  upstairs  to  the  brain  of  the  establishment,  the 
great  room  overhead,  looking  down  on  the  famous  bridge 
of  Bideford,  where  lived  Mr.  Trevithick,  far  from  the  noise 
of  opening  doors  and  the  murmur  of  voices,  which  were 
apt,  in  fact,  to  be  very  loud  indeed  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  Mr.  Jerman  took  a  holiday.  Then  pandemonium 
reigned  among  the  articled  pupils;  for  in  a  country  office 
one  of  the  chief  difficulties,  next  to  the  general  "tightness" 
of  money  is  the  rombustious  nature  of  the  untamed  country 
lads  who  pass  through  the  mill  there. 

It  was  more  than  a  fortnight  before  Ambrose  was  sent 
upstairs  for  Mr.  Trevithick 's  inspection,  but  during  these 
days  he  had,  unknown  to  himself,  been  going  through  the 
ordeal  of  test  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Jerman.  His  report  on 
Ambrose  was: — 

First-class  draughtsman,  best  we've  ever  had.  Accurate 
at  figures,  remarkably  so,  considering  he's  the  long-haired 
type.  Writes  a  good  hand,  opens  his  eyes,  and  has  a  fair 
working  knowledge  of  surveying.  Wants  pruning,  but  will 
shape  well  when  his  ears  are  cut. 

The  junior  partner  had  a  capital  breed  of  terriers  in  his 
bachelor  villa  on  the  hill,  and  his  phraseology  was  apt  to 
be  doggy.  Hence  he  divided  the  pupils  into  long-haired 
and  wiry,  meaning  by  those  synonyms,  artistic  and  busi- 
ness-like. 

At  last  the  summons  came  for  Ambrose  to  go  to  Mr. 
Trevithick's  room,   but,  of    course,   the  senior    partner's 


250  A  Man  of  Genius 

great  height  and  large,  slow,  kindly  glance  was  a  familiar 
enough  sight  as  he  passed  through  the  offices  below.  It 
was  a  face  more  sympathetic  than  powerful,  perhaps, 
yet  his  head  was  like  his  buildings,  of  a  massive  sim- 
plicity that  caught  the  sunlight  and  threw  the  shadow 
almost  like  a  feature  of  the  natural  landscape.  His  lips, 
too,  could  tighten,  more  especially  over  the  matter  of  a 
slippery  contractor.  He  had  a  way  of  repeating  a  sentence 
till  it  sounded  like  a  fate,  and,  in  truth,  it  often  sealed  the 
fate  of  some  builder,  especially  when  it  ran  to  the  tune 
of  "all  that  concrete  must  come  up,"  and  when  the 
concrete  ran  over  a  carelessly  cemented  drain. 

Mr.  Trevithick  was  Jerman's  trial,  and  knew  it;  he 
was  also  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  to  his  wife,  and  was  perfectly 
aware  of  that  fact,  too.  For  he  was  apt  to  be  very  late  in 
the  mornings  and  to  sit  far  into  the  night,  working  at  the 
office  sometimes  till  early  morning.  To  Jerman  and  Mrs. 
Trevithick  such  habits  were  nothing  better  than  intellectual 
debauchery,  and  for  no  kind  of  debauchery  had  they  a 
grain  of  sympathy. 

When  Ambrose  entered  the  room  the  senior  partner  was 
bending  over  two  curious  vessels,  which  his  clerk  of  works 
had  brought  to  him  after  the  destruction  of  an  old  farm- 
house. Each  was  a  sort  of  basin  cut  out  of  a  solid  block 
of  elvan,  the  igneous  rock  found  intruding  in  granite 
beds,  and  each  had  a  funnel-like  aperture  piercing  its 
side. 

''Come  over  here,"  said  Mr.  Trevithick,  "and  tell  me 
what  you  make  of  these.  They're  only  found  down  west, 
but  I'm  not  quite  sure  what  the  use  of  them  can  have 
been." 

Leaning  back  in  his  chair,  he  watched  Ambrose  as  he 
took  up  one  of  the  basins.  Mr.  Trevithick  had  just  been 
reading  Mr.  Westaway's  eulogium  of  the  new  pupil  and  the 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     251 

young  man  attracted  him,  especially  after  the  sorrowful  tale 
that  the  junior  partner  had  just  tokl  him.  For  to  Mr. 
Trevithick's  malicious  humour,  poor  Jerman's  Puritanism, 
correct  and  prim  to  his  least  important  button,  was  a  source 
of  delight.  It  appeared  that  last  Sunday  Ambrose  and 
Dicky  Dick  had  scandalised  the  town  by  shooting  the  arches 
of  the  bridge  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  war  march  from 
Ambrose  Velly's  fiddle.  It  would  have  gratified  Jerman 
exceedingly  to  learn,  which  was  the  fact,  that  the  damp, 
salt  air  had  been  most  detrimental  to  the  fiddle-strings. 

"I've  heard  of  these  before,"  said  Ambrose,  after  an 
examination  of  the  basins,  "but  I've  never  seen  one.  I've 
heard  my  mother  talk  of  them,  though.  They  used  to  be 
fastened  to  the  back  of  the  wall  in  an  open  fireplace,  and 
were  used  for  scalding  milk.  The  fire  was  hghted  in  the 
basin  part  and  the  funnel  is  for  scraping  out  the  ash.  Then 
the  pan  of  milk  stood  on  the  whole  thing." 

Though  Ambrose  did  not  know  it  at  the  time,  much  of 
his  future  fortune  turned  on  this  scrap  of  information. 

"You've  the  makings  of  an  archaeologist,"  said  the 
senior  partner.  "Take  any  interest  in  it?  It's  a  very 
important  part  of  your  profession,  you  know.  For  nobody 
has  done  more  harm  than  the  architects  who  try  to  restore 
buildings  without  any  real  knowledge  of  the  old  work 
they  are  touching." 

"I've  never  been  able  to  lay  hands  on  much  in  the  way 
of  books  about  it,"  said  Ambrose,  "but  I  want  to  know- 
more." 

Mr.  Trevithick's  ears  almost  stood  up  with  excitement, 
for  here  was  a  pupil  who  talked  of  books,  no  sickly,  pigeon- 
breasted  fellow,  either,  but  manly,  well-set-up  and  bronzed. 
He  began  to  entertain  hopes  that  here  was  the  student  he 
had  waited  for  so  long,  especially  knowing  as  he  did, 
Jerman's  grudge  against  "long-haired  ones." 


252  A  Man  of  Genius 

''Come  over  here,"  he  said,  opening  the  door  into  a  back 
room  that  looked  across  the  roofs  of  the  town.  "There  are 
books,  and  you  can  have  the  run  of  them.  There's  a  door 
on  to  the  landing  by  which  you  can  come  in  without  dis- 
turbing me.  Here's  a  translation  of  Viollet-le-Duc's 
book,  and  he's  the  most  valuable  companion  an  ambitious 
young  architect  can  have." 

Ambrose  noticed  his  master's  English-French  pronun- 
ciation of  the  name,  and  his  heart  warmed  to  the  man  who, 
like  himself,  had  known  but  few  educational  advantages. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Trevithick,  "I'm  going  to  try  an  ex- 
periment with  you,  for  you've  had  three  years'  experience, 
and  this  wuU  put  you  on  your  mettle.  I'm  going  to  send 
you  to  draw  up  a  report  of  the  repairs  needed  for  an  old 
manor  house.  That  is  to  say,  I  want  you  to  draw  a  plan 
of  the  buildings,  making  notes  as  you  go  of  what  you 
think  wants  doing.  Not  decorating,  but  saving — d'ye 
take  me?  Get  a  plan  of  the  drainage,  too.  Saving,  that's 
the  aim,  mind,  bits  of  masonry,  traceried  windows  wanting 
repair,  that  sort  of  thing.  Then,  when  you've  done,  you'll 
drive  over  with  me  and  we'll  go  over  it  again  according  to 
my  notions.  Then  we  shall  see  how  far  they  square,  yours 
and  mine." 

Ambrose  knew  enough  to  recognise  that  a  first-rate 
opportunity  was  being  offered  him. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"It's  Tonacombe,  over  in  Morwenstow.  It'll  take  a  day. 
You'd  better  ride  over  on  a  Saturday  and  then  you  needn't 
get  back  till  Sunday  night.  That'll  give  you  an  hour 
or  so  in  Hartland,  for  I'm  told  you  are  a  married  man." 

Mr.  Trevithick  smiled  at  Ambrose's  blush;  all  his 
troubles  before  him,  said  the  senior  partner  to  himself, 
and  the  eating  of  the  apple  behind;  for  he,  too,  had  been 
a  lad  and  was  now  a  man  with  a  wife. 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     253 

"Tonacombc!"  exclaimed  Ambrose,  "why,  that's  the 
place  that  belonged  to  my  family  long  ago.  I've  got  a 
plan  of  the  house  that  I  copied  from  the  old  records  Mr. 
Westaway  showed  me." 

"If  you've  got  it  with  you  here,  I  wish  you'd  fetch  it 
and  let  me  see  it.  It's  lapsed  now  to  an  old  London  lawyer, 
who  wishes  to  sell,  for  it  isn't  entailed.  He  wants  it  put 
ship-shape  before  it  comes  on  the  market." 

"It  was  Velly  land  once,  sir,"  said  Ambrose. 

The  two  spent  the  morning  over  the  plan,  while  Jerman 
was  fuming  below  at  the  delay  in  the  morning's  mail  that 
was  thus  entailed,  and  when  Ambrose  returned  to  the 
students  the  whole  room  was  red-hot  with  excitement  at 
this  prolonged  interview  with  the  Chief;  the  senior  partner 
was  known  as  the  Chief  and  the  junior  as  the  Governor. 

''Why,"  asked  Ambrose  as  he  walked  away  from  the 
office  that  evening  with  Mr.  Cobbledick,  "is  it  that  the 
Chief  doesn't  live  in  London?  He's  surely  too  good  for 
a  country  practice." 

"Mrs.  Tre,"  said  Dickie,  pushing  his  hat  back  on  his 
wiry  red  curls,  "that's  where  the  shoe  pinches.  She's  set 
up  an  establishment  here  and  goes  about  solemnly  deliver- 
ing visiting  cards.  She  doesn't  believe  she  would  get  it  in 
town,  and  that's  why  he  has  to  rot  in  this  dead-and-alive 
hole." 

To  Ambrose  it  was  a  novel  sensation  to  walk  into  Mrs. 
Trevithick's  drawing-room  next  day;  the  huge  mirrors, 
impertinent  sofas  and  hermetically  sealed  windows  made 
him  giddy  at  first,  and  he  was  thankful  to  fmd  himself 
finally  at  anchor  on  a  chair,  with  a  cup  of  what  Mrs.  Velly 
would  have  called  dish-water  in  his  hand.  At  last  the 
mist  of  nervousness  cleared,  and  he  was  able  to  appreciate 
Mrs.  Trevithick's  beautiful  front  of  expensive  hair.  He 
had  never  seen  so  sprightly  a  thing  on  such  a  lined  face — 


254  ^  Man  of  Genius 

a  face  that  ought  to  have  been  framed  in  soft  grey  hair, 
as  it  actually  was  at  the  "private  view"  to  which  only  her 
husband  was  admitted. 

She  was  enlarging  on  the  work  of  missions  to  Mr.  Pearse, 
a  fatherly  person  who  refused  tea,  preferring  a  "high"  on'? 
at  home  at  six  o'clock.  It  was  an  inelegant  habit  on  his 
part,  and  annoyed  Mrs.  Trevithick  almost  as  much  as  his 
trade.  "Not  to  put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it,"  as  Mr.  Jerman 
would  have  said,  he  was  a  prosperous  grocer,  whose  con- 
sciousness of  his  bank  balance  pervaded  the  air  in  his 
immediate  neighbourhood.  His  wife  sat  next  to  Ambrose, 
with  a  white  handkerchief  outspread  on  her  mourning 
gown;  Mrs.  Pearse  was  one  of  the  women  whose  crape- 
edged  veils  carry  more  suggestion  of  "Brief  life  is  here  our 
portion"  than  any  undertaker's  funeral  plumes. 

In  the  background  hovered  Mr.  Trevithick,  watching 
with  an  amused  face  the  lad's  efforts  to  take  part  in  a  con- 
versation that  hurtled  with  abbreviations  like  C.  M.  S.  and 
Nw  S.  P.  C.  C.  It  was  an  island  of  rest  to  Ambrose  when  at 
last  the  conversational  gymnastics  landed  him  on  one  he 
knew  well.  Yet,  as  the  Chief  could  see,  this  novel  form  of 
entertainment  pleased  the  boy  hugely,  for  to  appear  in- 
telligent when  you  have  no  notion  of  what  is  going  on  is 
highly  stimulating  to  the  social  sense.  Before  they  finished 
Ambrose  knew  what  C.  M.  S.  meant,  and  was  giving  his 
opinion  of  the  West  African  natives  with  great  gusto.  He 
was  also  quite  familiar  with  Mrs.  Trevithick's  favourite 
phrase,  "Then  I  thought  of  C.  M.  S.,"  and  was  laughing  at 
her  up  his  sleeve. 

Yet,  after  all,  his  youthful  insolence  was  quite  wrong- 
headed.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Trevithick  was  something  of 
a  snob,  yet  she  was  by  no  means  a  hypocrite,  and  the  work 
in  the  mission  fields,  "white  for  harvest,"  indeed,  was,  next 
to  her  husband,  the  genuine  passion  of  the  poor  woman's 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     255 

life,  the  one  link  between  her  and  the  great  world  of  un- 
selfish thought  for  others.  Every  spring,  when  the  bright 
sunshine  made  her  long  for  pale  greys  and  lavenders,  she 
regularly  bought  dark  dresses  and  put  aside  the  sum  saved, 
through  their  extra  durability,  for  "C.  M.  S."  True,  she 
buzzed  domestic  details  all  day,  yet  the  milk-bread  required 
by  her  husband's  indigestion  was  made  by  her  own  hands, 
for  fear  the  cook's  should  prove  unequal  to  that  important 
task. 

The  trouble  of  the  matter  was  that  she  was  wrongly 
married,  yet  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  fact,  in  her  adoration 
of  the  big  idol  whom  she  worried  to  death.  She  had,  in  fact, 
taken  the  senior,  when  she  ought  to  have  chosen  the  junior 
partner.  Mr.  Jerman,  indeed,  thought  her  perfection, 
when  he  played  the  flute  to  her  piano  accompaniment  while 
Mr.  Trevithick  buried  himself  in  his  study. 

''Heavens,"  said  Ambrose  to  himself,  as  he  followed  the 
Pearses  out  of  the  room,  ''how  does  the  Chief  stand  it! 
There  isn't  a  breath  of  air  in  the  house,  mental  or  physical." 

For  a  terrible  catastrophe  had  happened;  after  the  sweet 
nothings  that  Ambrose  had  been  politely  murmuring,  he 
chanced  to  remark  to  Mrs.  Pearse — 

"What  a  beastly  day,"  as  he  heard  the  fall  of  dripping 
rain. 

There  was  a  sudden  silence  that  filled  the  room.  Then 
Mrs.  Pearse  rose  in  her  majesty  and  remarked — 

"This  is  the  day  that  the  Lord  hath  made." 

With  crimson  ears  and  abashed  countenance  Ambrose 
hurriedly  took  his  leave,  much  comforted,  however,  by  the 
suppressed  laughter  that  convulsed  Mr.  Trevithick's  great 
frame. 

After  such  simulacra  of  human  beings,  it  w^as  delightful 
;to  feel  that  next  Sunday  he  would  be  in  the  society  of  the 
frankly  sincere    people  of    Beckland.     Yet    there  was  a 


256  A  Man  of  Genius 

certain  shrinking  even  in  that  thought,  for  Thyrza  wrote 
that  although  Mrs.  Velly  had  settled  in  her  two-roomed 
cottage  by  the  pond,  she  had  never  yet  crossed  the  threshold 
of  the  Westa ways'  house.  She  had  refused  to  be  present 
at  the  wedding,  and  immediately  after  the  sale  at  the  farm 
had  removed  her  furniture  with  Vinnicombe's  help  to  Beck- 
land.  "Nobody  gets  on  my  nerves  hke  mother,"  said 
Ambrose  to  himself,  as  he  thought  angrily  of  her  mannei 
of  conducting  the  removal,  seated,  like  any  cottage  woman 
in  front  of  a  cart  piled  up  with  feather-bed  and  eight-da) 
clock,  with  chest  of  drawers  and  cooking  utensils. 

But  on  Ambrose's  spirit  annoyance  weighed  but  lightly 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  hurrying  up  the  hill  again  tc 
go  and  call  on  Mrs.  Pearse  to  apologise  for  his  rude  speech 
"I'm  so  sorry  I  annoyed  Mrs.  Pearse  this  afternoon,' 
he  exclaimed,  coming  impulsively  into  the  ofhce  at  th( 
back  of  the  shop.  "I  said  it  quite  without  thinking." 

Mr.  Pearse,  entirely  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  Ambrose 
had  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  or  at  least  the  tip  of  it,  was 
delighted  with  his  frankness,  and  it  ended  in  the  lad  goin^ 
up  to  see  "the  young  ladies, "'and  singing  duets  with  then 
till  ten  o'clock,  for  never  in  his  life  was  he  shy  for  mor( 
than  five  minutes,  and  he  could  talk  missions  with  a  bishoj 
and  bets  with  a  barmaid  with  equal  facility  after  ten  minutes 
practice. 

He  was  voted  "a  great  acquisition"  by  the  Pearses,  am 
ended  by  lending  Mr.  Pearse  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Archi 
tecture,  thereby  laying  one  of  the  possible  foundation  stone 
of  his  own  temptation.  For  the  grocer  was  so  struck  witl 
the  artistic  piety  of  the  work  that  his  mind  turned  in  thi 
direction  of  a  beautiful  house  overlooking  the  sea,  to  whicl 
he  could  retire  in  the  evening  of  his  days.  And  in  tha 
scheme  Ambrose  was  hereafter  to  be  most  intimately  con 
cerned.    For,  in  truth,  the  dip  into  town  life  fired  connectinj 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     257 

trains  of  enterprise  in  all  directions  for  young  \'clly's  for- 
tunes, as  is  usually  the  case  with  persons  of  marked  vitality. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  he  was  at  Morwenstow,  looking 
down  for  the  first  time  on  the  house  that  had  played  so  large 
a  part  in  the  inner  drama  of  his  fancy.  Smiling  in  the  grey 
peace  of  the  centuries,  Tonacombe  lay  before  him,  closed 
by  high  boundary  walls  and  belfried  against  the  clear  sky, 
in  the  faint  murmur  of  the  sea  music  t'uit  had  Ijut  to  cross 
a  field  or  two.  Under  his  feet,  as  he  walked  up  "the  street," 
or  walled  outer  passage  to  the  gates,  the  ground  reverberated 
in  hollow  tones,  for  from  the  house  there  runs  an  under- 
ground way  to  the  cliffs,  for  use  in  the  days  when  "the 
valley  of  the  waves"  was  a  wrecking  stronghold  and  the 
squire's  house  the  central  fortress.  The  low  shrubs  set  in 
green  pots  along  "the  street"  are  bent  south-west  by  the 
prevailing  wind,  and  in  the  wall  opposite  the  door  is  a  niche, 
probably  for  the  doles  that  the  great  house  distributed  in 
monastic  fashion  to  the  poorer  tenants. 

Once  within  the  dusk  of  the  hall,  past  the  triangular  hole 
in  the  wall  for  the  holy  w^ater  stoup,  the  centuries  roll  back; 
the  nineteenth  century  roars  away  in  the  hum  of  the  steam- 
engine,  the  eighteenth  fades  in  the  snuff  of  its  gallants  and 
the  silky  sneers  of  its  epigrams,  the  seventeenth  clashes 
away  in  the  strife  of  its  dogmas,  and  the  sixteenth  shrills 
into  oblivion  in  the  lilting  of  pipe  and  tabor.  The  darker 
shadows,  the  whiter  light,  of  mediaevalism  come  back  once 
more.  Through  the  long  windows,  lozenged  and  marked 
with  armorial  bearings,  the  light  filters  on  panelled  oak 
walls,  on  car\^ed  minstrel  galler)-  and  huge  open  fireplace. 
At  the  windows  hung  curtains  that  had  once  formed  part 
of  the  household  plenishing  of  that  Armada  dragon,  that 
Drake,  whose  drums  beat  yet  in  the  echoes  of  English 
seamanship.  Tapestry  was  there  with  the  totem  of  the 
Stuarts,  the  caterpillar  sign,  and  the  firedogs  were  marked 

17 


258  A  Man  of  Genius 

with  the  Tudor  rose.  All  these  treasures  would  have  to  be 
removed,  as  soon  as  the  workmen  came,  for  safe  preser- 
vation, until  they  were  sold  with  the  old  place  itself,  or 
possibly  separately. 

In  the  ample  vistas  of  such  a  house  as  Tonacombe  the 
sense  of  personal  dignity  starts  into  being,  for,  chameleon- 
like, a  man  reflects  his  background.  It  takes  a  Bacon  to 
loom  majestic  in  a  garret,  but  in  an  ancient  manor-house 
even  rusticity  drops  its  loutishness  and  assumes  the  courtesy 
that  comes  of  a  sense  of  human  worth. 

With  the  plan  he  had  copied  in  his  hand,  Ambrose  made 
his  inspection  and  wrote  his  notes,  passing  into  the  Queen 
Anne  parlour  panelled  in  painted  deal,  and  thence  to  the 
oak-lined  room  that  looks  on  the  walled  Pleasaunce. 

*' Winged  steps,"  beloved  of  antiquaries,  lead  to  the  raised 
sea  walk  from  which,  as  it  roves  over  wooded  combes  and 
cliff  fields,  the  eye  catches  glimpses  of  the  Atlantic.  In  the 
sound  of  the  mellow  tones  from  the  belfry,  that  once  sum- 
moned as  many  as  forty  apprentices  to  meals,  the  internal 
completeness  of  an  ancient  country  house  is  recalled.  With- 
out, it  was  supplied  from  deer  paddock,  cloth  mill,  fish-stews, 
and  farm;  within,  from  malt-house,  still-room,  bakery, 
and  spinning  wheel.  Even  now  the  log  fire  in  the  hall  can 
be  fed  by  timber  blown  down  in  the  winter  gales. 

Here,  in  sight  of  the  five  staircases  and  five  courts  sur- 
rounded by  granite  walls,  Ambrose  heard  not  only  the  call 
of  the  past,  but  also  of  the  future,  as  he  wondered  how  long 
it  would  be  before  Tonacombe  would  be  for  sale.  For  the 
first  time  the  question  of  the  financial  success  of  his  career 
occurred  to  him,  since  ten  years  hence,  with  good  luck, 
he  might  possibly  be  rich  enough  to  buy  the  manor-house, 
for  there  was  little  enough  land  attached  to  it,  merely  a 
farm  and  the  private  grounds.  To  do  that  would  be  to  lift 
the  Velly   fortunes   straight  out  of   the   rut    into   which 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     259 

they  had  fallen;  he  thrilled  even  then  with  the  thought  of 
what  it  would  mean  to  his  mother. 

Somehow  the  memories  of  the  place  brought  with  them 
the  spiritual  stimulus  that  had  been  present  once  or  twice 
before  in  his  life:  in  Exeter  Cathedral  with  the  boy's  voice 
thrilling  in  his  ears,  in  Damaris  Westaway's  eyes  as  she 
talked  of  the  age-long  task  of  man,  in  Thyrza's  chanting  of 
the  love  song  of  creation.  For  the  unseen  beauty  that  lies 
behind  the  seen  pervaded  every  inch  of  these  old  walls, 
in  the  atmosphere  of  their  honest  past. 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  Bush  Inn  the  call  of  the  place 
became  so  strong  that  it  was  almost  like  demoniac  possession, 
and  he  began  to  feel  a  second  Faust  with  the  fatal  black 
dog  circling  round  him.  Nor  was  the  mystic  suggestion 
of  the  pentagram  wanting;  for  in  the  passage  of  the  Bush 
Inn  is  a  cross  traced  within  a  circle,  a  curious  piece  of 
mediaeval  sacerdotalism,  marking  the  place  where  the 
priest  stood  to  bless  the  house. 

*'In  the  name  of  all  the  fiends  at  once,"  said  Ambrose, 
standing  within  the  circle  and  laughing  to  himself,  *'get 
thee  behind  me."  For,  indeed,  at  the  moment,  the  strong 
craving  to  own  these  lands  was  no  more  than  moonshine, 
as  ungraspable  as  the  long  sunset  ray  that  traced  a  path 
across  the  sea  when  he  stood  looking  from  the  cliff  across 
the  valley  of  St.  !Morwenna,  where  the  grey  church  juts  up 
like  a  cliff  defying  the  sea  of  wrath  all  around.  For  in  the 
valley  below  the  great  shutter  of  Hennacliff  all  landward 
sounds  were  deadened  by  the  roar  of  the  seething  world  of 
breakers,  lashed  incessantly  by  the  sting  of  the  wind  gusts. 
Yet  here,  as  ever)'^vhere,  over  the  natural  featm*es  of  the 
scene,  the  superimposed  atmosphere  of  human  effort  floats 
like  an  aura,  a  finer  body  than  the  rock-shapes  of  cliff  and 
valley.  For  St.  Morwenna  built  her  grey  hermitage  in  the 
valley,  and  over  her  shrine  is  thrown  the  human  radiance  of 


26o  A  Man  of  Genius 

a  personality  that  speaks  as  surely  in  this  sea-bordered 
valley  as  the  force  of  race  that  meets  us  in  a  city;  for  here  is 
the  note  of  mysticism  in  the  traditions  of  Hawker  of  Morwen- 
stow,  the  priest  who  cherished  his  ewe  lambs  as  daughters, 
and  stood  for  quaint  lovingkindness  in  the  midst  of  the 
barbarism  of  nature  and  the  cruelty  of  man. 

The  earth  that  has  known  us  so  long  is  now  a  whispering- 
gallery  of  past  follies  and  bygone  victories.  In  olden  cities 
whole  races  speak,  from  the  wool -weavers  of  Exeter  who 
built  the  pillars  of  her  cathedral,  to  the  princely  doges  of 
Venice  who  helped  to  build  empires.  Yet  in  no  spot  does 
a  pleasanter  fragrance  linger  than  in  the  one-man  memories 
of  Morwenstow  cliffs,  w^here  the  people  still  talk  of  the 
priest  who  was  '4ike  a  king"  among  them. 

Before  he  rode  back  in  the  evening,  Ambrose  stood  for 
a  moment  at  the  cross-roads  from  which  the  cliffs  can  be 
seen.  Here  he  felt  himself  a  man  with  a  past  of  some 
dignity,  over  in  Bideford  an  unconsidered  struggler;  yet 
Bideford  was  the  reality  and  Tonacombe  the  dream,  and 
no  bridge  was  there  that  could  span  the  gulf  between  the 
two. 

As  Damaris  stood  at  her  window  at  Beckland  next 
morning  she  heard  a  cry  from  the  garden  below,  and  looking 
down  saw  Thyrza  running  to  meet  her  husband.  Standing 
back  for  a  moment  she  felt  her  eyes  dimmed  by  a  sudden 
mist  of  pain,  and  in  her  throbbing  sense  that  the  future 
must  hold  for  her  many  moments  like  this,  Damaris  whis- 
pered the  deathless  words  that  consecrate  the  bliss  of  all 
uplifted  souls — 

''Go  where  thou  wilt,  seek  whatsoever  thou  wilt,  thou 
shalt  not  find  a  higher  way  above,  nor  a  safer  way  below, 
than  the  way  of  the  holy  cross." 

Then  she  went  down  to  greet  the  visitor,  feeling  intensely 
relieved  at  two  things,  however — that  Mrs.  Velly  was  away 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     26  i 

it  Bradvvorthy  with  Chrissie  Rosevear,  and  that  she  Iicrsclf 
vas  to  spend  the  day  with  Dr.  Dayman. 

At  breakfast  Ambrose  was  full  of  the  beauties  of  Tona- 
:ombe,  and  Damaris  left  the  two  men  poring  over  gene- 
ilogies  and  maps  and  plans,  with  Thyrzii,  who  had  lost  ^11 
ler  awe  of  Mr.  Westaway,  sitting  by  her  husband's  side, 
A'ith  her  head  pressed  against  his  shoulder. 

''Happy,  little  girl?"  whispered  Damaris,  as  she  left. 

"In  Heaven,"  said  Thyrza,  and  Damaris  saw  how  tight 
was  the  hold  she  kept  on  Ambrose's  hand. 

The  child  had,  indeed,  been  bearing  the  separation  from 
her  husband  very  bravely,  and  Damaris  was  glad,  for  all 
her  own  heartache,  at  this  ray  of  sunshine  that  had 
come. 

After  lunch,  in  the  peace  of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  Dr. 
Dayman  set  himself  to  tackle  a  matter  that  had  been  dis- 
turbing him  a  good  deal  lately. 

"Just  you  come  over  here,"  he  said,  flinging  himself  into 
,a  chair  and  passing  a  great  silk  handkerchief  over  his  face. 
Sit  down  opposite  to  me  and  listen  to  what  I've  got  to 
say." 

Damaris  seated  herself  demurely,  with  crossed  hands, 
waiting  for  the  lecture  she  had  been  expecting  for  some 
time. 

'I  want  to  know  what's  the  meaning  of  this  caper?"  he 
said,  his  slow,  fish-like  gaze  absorbing  her  quiet  placidity, 
and  his  big  nose  snuffing  angrily  at  the  sight  of  it. 

'What  caper?"  said  Damaris,  with  a  provoking  tilt  of 
her  chin. 

"You  know  the  caper  I  mean  well  enough.  Aye,  and 
you  know  the  mutton  to  it,  too." 

"My  dear  doctor,  I  haven't  seen  you  for  three  weeks  and 
therefore  I  have  got  out  of  the  way  of  taking  huge  conver- 
sational leaps." 


262  A  Man  of  Genius 

*'How  long  is  that  little  wench  going  to  hang  on  at  Beck- 
land  ?"  he  said,  coming  suddenly  to  the  point. 

''Until  her  husband  can  make  a  proper  home  for  her," 
said  Damaris  calmly. 

''I  tell  you  what,  Damaris,  you're  doing  a  very  foolish 
thing.  You  are  taking  up  a  sort  of  responsibility  for  the 
lives  of  these  two  children,  a  responsibility  that  is  quite  out 
of  your  way." 

"I  am  a  grown-up  woman.  Am  I  to  refuse  responsi- 
bilities because  I  am  too  foolish  or  too  cowardly  to  undertake 
them?  Why  should  I  wish  to  remain  a  baby  all  my  life? 
I  should  take  responsibihties  enough  if  I  were  marrying. 
Then  you  would  make  no  objection." 

"You'd  be  meddling  with  your  own  life  then,  and  even 
a  woman  has  to  accept  the  responsibility  for  that.  But 
here,  why,  they'll  be  hanging  round  your  neck,  the  pair  of 
them,  till  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

''I  beheve  in  his  talents.  I  think  he  will  some  day  be  a 
great  man,  and  I  know  that  I  can  free  him  from  a  burden 
just  at  the  moment  when  it  will  be  hardest  for  him — at  the 
start.  Besides,  by  living  with  us  his  wife  will  have  some 
chance  of  knowing  how  a  gentlewoman  acts.  I  shall  go  on 
doing  what  I  am  doing  till  there  is  no  more  need  for  it." 

When  Damaris  took  that  tone  he  knew  it  was  useless  to 
argue. 

''And  she's  a  little  cuss,  too,"  said  he.  "I  caught  sight 
of  her  two  days  ago,  picking  flowers  in  a  hay  field.  For  a 
bit  of  a  joke  I  jumped  down  and  leant  over  the  gate." 

"Dr.  Dayman,"  laughed  Damaris,  "do  you  think  you 
had  better  go  on?" 

"You're  my  mother-confessor.  Princess,  and  always  will 
be.  I  said:  'Hillo,  little  'im,  do  you  know  how  to  make 
sweet  hay?'  At  that  she  picked  a  great  sheaf  of  the  grass, 
twisted  it  into  a  strand,  put  her  foot  on  the  gate  and  flung 


The  Manes  of  the  Mighty  Dead     263 

the  ring  of  it  round  my  great  face.  Then  she  held  up  her 
Hps.  She  knew  how  to  make  sweet  hay.  She'd  be  a  pretty 
Httle  toad  for  a  man  to  find  on  his  pillow." 

''You  acknowledge  she's  charming,  then?" 

''Well,  I  did  think  her  so  for  a  minute;  but  you  and 
your  father  are  too  quixotic  for  me.  Here's  he  signing  away 
thousands  and  revelling  in  the  process,  and  here  are  you 
Hving  in  the  lives  of  these  two  as  if  they  were  your  own 
people." 

"It's  nothing  more  than  I  have  done  before,  or  things 
like  it.    \\Tiy  are  you  so  concerned  ?" 

"Because  there's  something  at  the  back  of  it.  I'm  like 
Mrs.  Velly.  She  won't  rest  till  she  knows — and  I  shan't, 
either.  An  honest  woman,  that,  and  a  good  plucked  one. 
It  was  fine,  the  way  she  gave  up  pretty  nearly  everything  to 
pay  off  the  creditors." 

"They're  both  fine,  for  there  will  be  the  rent  paid  to  the 
last  penny  if  Ambrose  can  do  it.  But  my  intervention  here 
was  imperative.  Dr.  Dayman,  you  shall  know,  if  you  like. 
She  will  stay  with  me  till  her  child  is  born." 

"And  that's  why  you  worked  that  marriage?  Phew — o! 
So  that's  where  they  keep  the  cheese,  as  the  rat  said  when 
the  trap  nipped  him.  But  I  don't  know  that  it  makes  your 
action  any  wiser.  Have  you  counted  the  cost,  all  the  cost, 
to  him  and  to  you?" 

"I've  counted  the  cost  to  her,  and  that's  quite  enough  for 
me,"  said  Damaris  quietly. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dear!"  said  the  old  man  simply.  "I 
wish  I'd  known  a  woman  like  you  when  I  was  young.  It 
would  have  saved  me  some  regrets.  And  they  say  women 
can't  stand  by  one  another,  too.  For,"  he  held  up  a  fore- 
finger, "let  me  tell  you,  I  can  see  round  a  corner  sometimes, 
and  I  know  it's  cost  you  more  than  you'll  acknowledge." 

As  she  looked  up,  he  asked — 


264  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Is  it  easier  to  bear  without  words,  my  dear?" 
"Yes,    please,    Dr.    Dayman,"    she    answered,    leaning 
against  his  shoulder  for  a  minute. 
And  some  people  called  Dr.  Dayman  rough. 


CHAPTER   XVI 
THE  CRADLE  OF  A  CHILD 

IN  the  scented  wind  of  midsummer  the  elm  trees 
swayed  above  the  field;  across  the  sky,  like  moving 
towers,  floated  the  masses  of  cumulus  cloud  called  "the 
cloud  of  the  day";  a  sighing  breath  of  delicate  sweetness 
fluttered  above  the  billowy  mass  of  dried  hay  in  the  field 
below  the  garden  where  Damaris  was  bending  above  a 
bed  of  seedlings.  Over  the  gate  came  a  husky  voice  that 
remarked — 

''I've  been  to  see  the  old  dummun  over  yonder.  Thought 
I,  'tis  as  well  to  know  what's  afore  'ee,  if  you  can." 

Damaris  looked  up  to  see  old  Grylls  leaning  on  his  stick 
to  watch  her  labours.  Occasionally  he  went  further,  and 
came  into  the  garden  to  give  her  advice,  or  even  actual 
assistance.  He  had  often  made  himself  useful  in  breaking 
up  rough  ground  for  her. 

"Mrs.  Velly,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Well,  do  you  think 
she'll  be  an  addition  to  our  colony?"  asked  Damaris. 

"An  eye  like  a  gimlet  and  a  nose  like  a  scenting  hound," 
said  old  Josh  Grylls  firmly,  "and  in  a  neighbour  neither's 
exactly  what  you'd  wish  to  pray  for.  But  I'll  tell  'ee  all 
about  it,  missie,"  he  added,  taking  a  firmer  hold  on  the 
stick  on  which  he  leant.  "Yesterday  morning  I  stepped 
across  and  stood  in  the  woman's  doorway.  Her  sat  inside 
knitting  for  dear  life. 

"'Good  morning,  ma'am,'  says  I.  'Fine  morning  for 
the  time  of  the  year.' 

""Tis  mostly  fine  in  June,'  says  she. 
265 


266  A  Man  of  Genius 

"'Well/  thought  I,  'that's  true  enough,  though  vinegary 
said.' 

"'How's  your  health,  ma'am?'  I  asked. 

'"Health!  I  haven't  any  health,'  snapped  her. 

'"Ay,  you'm  like  me,  naught  but  an  aching  carcass, 
ma'am.' 

"'Health,'  her  says;  'if  I  thought  upon  my  health,  I 
should  feel  a  pain  fit  to  break  my  back,  and  a  cruel  stitch 
in  my  side,  and  an  ache  like  nails  in  my  head.  But  I've  no 
time  to  think  upon  it.' 

""Tis  the  lumbagy  with  me,  ma'am.' 

"  'Then  I  shouldn't  ha'  thought  you'd  best  stand  in  the 
doorway,  with  the  draught  near  cutting  you  in  two,'  saith 
she. 

'"Now,'  thought  I,  'that's  asking  me  in  as  near  as  a  lone 
woman  can  go.     So  I  thought  I'd  speak  out.' 

'"I'm  a  widowman,'  said  I,  'and  never  mean  to  leave 
the  state.  For  I'm  a  plain  man,  and  as  long  as  I  can  fry  a 
bit  of  bacon  of  a  morning  and  shake  a  mat  once  a  week, 
I'll  keep  clear  of  holy  matrimony.' 

"  'Ay,'  says  she,  'saving  Sally  was  your  first.  I've  heard 
tell  of  her.  Never  opened  her  front  door  once  for  the  week, 
and  gave  her  stepson  pasties  made  of  eggs  with  dead  chicks 
in  'em.  Till  he  up  and  went.  The  worm  that  turned  they 
call  'en  hereabouts.' 

"'Ay,'  said  I,  'but  her  didn't  leave  much  after  all,  and 
I've  to  rub  along  on  but  little.'  You  see,  missie,  I  wanted 
things  put  plain  to  her." 

"I  see,"  said  Damaris  with  a  laugh.  The  old  man  was 
intensely  conscious  of  his  store  of  money  in  the  bank,  and 
always  on  the  look-out  for  man-traps. 

"'Roast  duck  and  onions  yesterday,'  sniffed  Mrs.  Velly, 
looking  out  t'other  side  of  me,  as  if  I  didn't  stand  in  the 
way. 


The  Cradle  of  A  Child  267 

*"The  old  gander  looked  terrible  peaky  and  oflF  his  feed,' 
said  I,  'and  'twas  but  to  save  'en  that  I  cut  his  throat.  And 
the  onions  spoiling  for  want  of  pulling,  too.  Rusty  bacon 
and  hard  cider  is  more  in  my  line.' 

'''And  only  enough  for  one,'  saith  she;  'thank  'ee  for 
telling  me.    But  there  wasn't  any  need,  I  do  assure  you.' 

"Do  'ee  think  'tis  all  plain  between  us  now,  missie? 
For  I  wouldn't  have  her  think  I  was  making  sheep's  eyes  at 
her  for  all  the  gold  in  the  mint." 

"Perfectly  plain,  Grylls,"  said  Damaris.  "I  feel  abso- 
lutely certain  that  Mrs.  Velly  hasn't  the  faintest  idea  of 
setting  her  cap  at  you." 

He  turned  away  reassured,  and  Damaris  heard  him 
chuckle  as  he  crossed  the  green  by  the  duck  pond,  his  long 
white  beard,  that  hung  like  a  curtain  from  his  lower  lip, 
waving  patriarchally  against  the  rose-red  of  the  sunset. 

Between  the  three  houses  in  the  colony  there  had  arisen 
a  state  of  armed  neutrality,  maintained,  like  the  peace  of  a 
mediaeval  town,  by  the  constant  bearing  of  arms.  For  Mrs. 
Velly  passed  her  days  furiously  knitting  jerseys  and  raging 
at  the  way  she  had  been  displaced  in  her  son's  life  by 
Thyrza,  while  Damaris  resented  the  constant  espionage  to 
which  she  felt  herself  subjected.  Finally,  old  Josh  Grylls 
had  been  dragged  into  the  circle  of  strife  by  his  dread  of 
Mrs.  Velly.  It  fairly  made  his  brain  reel  to  see  such  a 
sudden  incursion  of  human  beings  into  his  corner  of  the 
world  where  he  had  lived  for  years  as  lonely  as  a  pelican. 
Only  ^Ir.  Westaway,  immersed  in  his  dreams  of  the  house 
of  hope  that  was  rising  in  the  w^elter  of  the  city,  and  the 
ducks,  absorbed  in  the  toothsome  scum  of  the  pond. 
remained  oblivious  of  this  triangular  duel.  To  Damaris  the 
thought  of  the  old  woman's  bitter  vigil  was  a  daily  annoy- 
ance, for  every  one  else  in  Beckland  had  some  pleasant 
fountain  of  delight,  even  if  it  were  no  more  than  the  flight 


268  A  Man  of  Genius 

of  pigeons  from  the  dovecote,  or  the  springing  of  God's 
blessing  out  of  the  earth,  as  old  Hooker  hath  it.  But  for 
Mrs.  Velly  there  was  nothing  but  lonely  bitterness,  as  she 
brooded  over  the  debt  of  £500  that  yet  remained  owing. 

At  length  came  the  earthquake  that  broke  up  this  stagna- 
tion. One  morning,  as  the  two  girls  passed  the  window  of 
Mrs.  Velly's  cottage,  they  saw  a  large  picture  propped  up 
on  the  table.  Damaris  knew  at  once  that  it  must  have 
been  placed  there  purposely,  and  at  first  she  hoped  that 
Thyrza  had  not  seen  it.  But  one  glance  at  the  girl's  tense, 
white  face  undeceived  her. 

"I'm  going  in,"  said  Thyrza  in  a  quiet  voice.  "No, 
don't  try  to  stop  me.     It's  no  use  at  all." 

The  next  moment  she  had  pushed  open  the  door  and  was 
standing  for  the  first  time  in  her  mother-in-law's  cottage. 
Mrs.  Velly  looked  up  from  her  incessant  knitting. 

"Ay,"  she  said,  "I  thought  you'd  catch  sight  of  it  when 
you  passed.  I  put  it  there  on  purpose,  for  I  wanted  you  to 
see  that  though  he  has  got  a  wife,  he  hasn't  yet  forgotten  his 
mother." 

The  three  women  stood  facing  the  picture  which  seemed 
to  bind  their  lives  together  in  a  mingled  bond  of  love  and 
hate.  Mirrored  in  the  still  surface  of  a  tree-encircled  pool 
the  pictured  sunset  flamed,  casting  on  the  water  red  re- 
flections that  faded  into  purple  in  the  far  distance. 

"He  sent  you  that?"  asked  Thyrza,  turning  to  the  old 
woman.  Beneath  her  quiet  tones  there  sounded  an  agony 
of  jealousy  that  was  bliss  unspeakable  to  Mrs.  Velly's  bitter, 
lonely  heart. 

"Look,  it's  signed,"  she  said,  tilting  the  canvas  slightly, 
till  they  could  read  the  signature  and  the  date  in  the  corner. 

"He's  never  sent  me  a  picture,"  said  Thyrza  stupidly, 
being  devoid  of  the  pride  that  hides  the  sting  of  pain. 

"Ah,  well,"  laughed  Mrs.  Velly,  "but  there's  been  letters 


The  Cradle  of  a  Child  269 

enough  in  all  conscience.  Do  you  think  I  haven't  known 
why  the  postman  never  misses  a  day  except  Sunday?  And 
there's  been  none  for  me  for  whole  weeks  at  a  time.  Now 
we're  even,  I  reckon.  There's  a  midsummer  madness  that 
takes  a  man  for  a  month  or  two,  but  that  passes.  You'll 
find,  my  lady,  that  you've  had  your  day,  like  me." 

Damaris's  heart  was  beating  painfully  in  face  of  this  bare 
play  of  passion,  for  these  women  who  faced  one  another, 
bitter-lipped  across  the  narrow  table,  were  beyond  her  inter- 
ference. 

Thyrza  suddenly  put  up  her  hand  to  her  collar,  and  then 
Damaris  saw  how  white  she  was  growing. 

"Be  careful,"  she  cried  to  Mrs.  Velly,  ''you're  doing 
more  harm  than  you  know." 

"Oh,  I  knew  Thyrza's  temper  years  before  you  ever  set 
eyes  on  her,"  sneered  the  old  woman.  "And  what  a  fuss 
because  a  man  remembers  the  existence  of  his  own  mother. 
Besides " 

But  she  never  finished  her  words,  for  the  next  moment 
Thyrza  swayed  forward,  in  instinctive  appeal  for  mercy  or 
help. 

"You  are  a  cruel  woman,"  cried  Damaris,  moved  outside 
her  usual  quietude. 

But  again  no  one  paid  any  heed  to  her,  for  Mrs.  Velly,  at 
this  sign  of  victory,  was  a  changed  woman.  Putting  her 
arm  round  Thyrza  she  helped  her  to  the  old  couch,  and, 
fetching  water,  held  it  to  her  lips,  making  her  lie,  white  and 
spent,  on  the  patchwork  cushions. 

"Eh,  my  pretty,  my  pretty,"  cooed  the  old  woman,  hold- 
ing the  girl  to  her.  "Why  did  'ee  never  tell  me  anything? 
Did  you  think  I'd  be  cruel  to  my  boy's  wife?  Why  ever 
didn't  you  come  straight  to  me  in  your  trouble?" 

Neither  of  the  two,  in  the  kinship  of  race  and  blood, 
even  remembered  the  presence  of  Damaris. 


270  A  Man  of  Genius 

''I  was  afraid,"  whispered  Thyrza;  "afraid  you'd  say  I'd 
ruined  'en." 

''But  I  knew  it.  I  suspicioned  it  all  the  time,  and  it 
angered  me  that  you  went  to  others  for  help.  My  son's 
wife,  the  mother  to  be  of  my  son's  child,"  she  said,  rocking 
the  girl  to  and  fro  in  an  agony  of  joy  at  the  renewal  of  life. 

Damaris  slipped  out  unnoticed;  beside  these  mothers 
o'  men  she  felt  a  shadow  from  the  dream  world.  The  tears 
smarted  in  her  eyes  as  she  walked  away,  marvelling  at  the 
secrets  of  life  that  were  hidden  from  her. 

In  the  first  gleam  of  dawn  next  day  Damaris  awoke,  and 
looking  down  the  shadowy  corridors  of  the  inner  life 
expected  to  find  them,  as  usual,  full  of  nothing  but  memories 
and  old  fancies,  driving  one  another  round  in  wearisome 
iteration.  But  to-day,  instead  of  the  constant  repetition 
of  bygone  scenes  which  forms  the  content  of  so  many 
women's  minds,  she  found  a  strange  inward  ferment; 
from  subliminal  depths  below  they  came,  ideas,  fancies, 
pictures,  scenes,  characters,  whirling  like  the  cross  currents 
that  falling  raindrops  sometimes  show.  Slowly  she  began 
to  disentangle  the  threads,  fitting  scene  to  character  and 
linking  pictures  to  people,  wondering  all  the  time  what 
new  birth  had  come  to  her.  Before  long,  however,  she  had 
learnt  to  recognise  that  this  was  a  gift  bom  of  sorrow  and 
disappointment. 

For  here,  to  the  woman,  is  the  power  of  inspiration. 
Her  personal  grief  becomes  like  the  straining  agony  of  the 
violins  when  they  work  upon  the  quivering  nerves;  it 
awakes  her;  it  drives  away  the  mental  inertia  that,  given  to 
a  woman  for  safeguard  in  her  child-bearing  duties,  prevents 
her  from  enjoying  the  actual  strife  of  mental  labour  as  a 
man  does.  In  the  sting  of  personal  disappointment  the 
mind  seeks  the  narcotic  of  emotional  creation.  With  the 
passing  of  the  pain  the  power  often  goes,  but  meanwhile 


The  Cradle  of  a  Child  271 

the  writer,  the  actress,  has  been  bom.  Were  all  the  \v(jrkl 
full  of  happy  women  there  would  be  no  artists  among 
them.  For  just  as  a  man  drinks  because  he  likes  it,  and  a 
woman  because  it  brings  forgctfulness,  so  the  creative  im- 
pulse in  a  woman  is  born  of  pain,  not  mentality.  A  wave 
of  sorrow,  the  empty  heart — and  some  new  human  dream: 
this  is  the  history  of  a  woman-artist's  life. 

Then,  in  the  early  mornings,  Damaris  began  to  write, 
with  Danny,  the  long-bodied  Scottish  terrier  that  Dr.  Day- 
man had  given  her  as  a  consolation  for  Beckland,  beside 
her.  He  learnt  to  watch  for  his  mistress's  footstep  on 
these  bright  summer  days,  and  to  refrain  from  barking,  as 
he  ran  from  his  kennel,  with  his  long-nailed  toes  going  patter, 
patter  on  the  flags.  Years  after,  whenever  she  looked  at 
the  pages  of  the  "Beckland  book,"  Damaris  always  heard 
the  pattering  of  Danny's  toes,  though  then  he  slept  three 
feet  down  in  mother  earth,  and  his  lush  red  tongue  would 
never  again  lap  milk  from  her  early  morning  tea  saucer. 

They  were  good  moments  those,  when  Damaris  felt  her- 
self coming  into  the  birthright  of  power  and  the  long  beams 
cf  sunlight,  drowsy  with  the  drone  of  bees,  fell  in  bands  of 
blessed  gold  before  her  eyes.  For,  like  the  seed  in  the 
earth,  creative  power  must  lie  hidden  in  the  darkness  of 
death  and  winter,  till  it  rise  at  the  mandate  of  the  life 
spirit.    And  in  the  thin  shoot  of  green  is  joy  unspeakable. 

Yet  Damaris  still  sometimes  slept  with  her  pillow  wet 
with  tears.  For  in  the  four-square  walls  of  the  city  whose 
streets  are  golden,  and  even  amidst  the  hymning  of  the 
psalms  of  victor}',  a  woman  misses  the  homely  |)lant  called 
heartsease,  and  the  still  homelier  plant  called  lad's  love, 
both  of  which  grow  in  many  a  simple  woman's  garden  plot, 
where  the  shouting  of  merry  children  sounds. 

For  Thyrza  there  was  but  one  event  in  the  day — the 
arrival  of  a  letter  from  Ambrose.     Every  morning,  with 


272  A  Man  of  Genius 

palpitating  tremors,  she  lay  in  wait  for  the  postman  at  the 
garden  gate.  Then  there  would  come  the  sound  of  hurry- 
ing footsteps  and  a  whisper,  ''It's  come,  it's  come!" 

"Well,  how  do  you  like  this  one?"  asked  Damaris,  as 
she  rolled  out  the  dough  for  a  pie,  while  Thyrza,  curled  up 
in  the  window-seat,  pored  over  the  day's  joy.  Every  morn- 
ing they  discussed  the  quality  of  the  letter,  like  connois- 
seurs over  a  brand  of  wine. 

''I  like  the  end,  where  it  begins  'little  wife,'  very  much," 
said  Thyrza,  following  the  lines  with  her  finger,  and  saying 
the  words  over  to  herself.  "But  I  don't  care  much  for  the 
rest.  There's  only  three  'dearests'  in  the  whole,  and  not 
a  single  'darling,'  though  I  ordered  one.  Most  of  it  is 
just  an  answer  to  what  you  made  me  write." 

The  daily  letter  to  Ambrose  had  been  rather  in  the 
nature  of  a  daily  sorrow,  till  Damaris  rashly  undertook  to 
assist  in  the  composition  of  the  scholarly  portions,  where 
Thyrza  felt  herself  lost.  It  v/as  all  written  in  his  wife's 
handwriting,  and  foolish  Ambrose  merely  supposed  that 
the  child  was  mentally  developing  with  tropic  quickness. 
The  Thyrza  he  knew  best  of  all  revealed  herself  in  the  cir- 
cular kiss-marks,  in  the  wail  of  longing,  or  in  the  passionate 
words  of  memory. 

"There's  something  in  it  I  don't  like,  though,"  said 
Thyrza  suddenly.  "There  was  a  packet  this  morning,  and 
it's  got  a  present  for  my  birthday." 

"Well,  Thyrza,"  said  Damaris,  briskly  tapping  her  roll- 
ing-pin to  get  the  flour  off,  "I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't 
have  a  packet,  though  it's  a  day  too  early.    May  I  see?" 

It  was  a  gold  buckle  with  Waller's  lines  engraved  at  the 
back : — 

"  A  narrow  compass  !   and  yet  there 
Dwells  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round." 


The  Cradle  of  a  Child  273 

"It's  beautiful,  and  the  grace  of  the  thought  is  what  I 
should  like  best  if  I  were  you,"  said  Damaris. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that  I  don't  know  it's  beautiful.  But  some- 
how, 'tis  so  like  Ambrose  to  send  me  this  and  no  money. 
For,"  she  added  in  a  low  voice,  "I  ought  to  pay  something 
for  my  keep,  and  I  did  ask  'en  for  it  and  he  never  noticed. 
And  there's  all  the  debt  that  his  mother  remembers  every 
hour.  I  didn't  ought  to  have  presents,  with  things  like 
that.     But  he'd  rather  give  presents  than  pay  his  debts." 

Damaris  was  silent,  for  here  was  a  sentiment  of  some 
subtlety  from  an  unexpected  quarter. 

"Oh,"  cried  Thyrza,  "I  love  to  think  'en  perfect,  and 
here  I  be  talking  about  'en  like  this." 

"I  know,"  said  Damaris,  "it's  hard  when  one  sees  the 
spots  in  our  sun.  The  happiest  women  never  see  them,  I 
believe.  They  remain  blind  to  the  end,  and  remember 
this,  a  man  never  worries  about  little  debts  and  little  duties 
as  women  do.  Don't  make  a  mountain  out  of  a  molehill, 
Thyrza.  And  as  for  paying  for  your  keep,  you  do  that  with 
your  work." 

"I  give  you  such  trouble  about  my  lessons,"  said  Thyrza 
in  a  low  voice,  "but  you  always  want  me  to  read  about 
dead  people,  and  I  don't  care  to  know  what's  over  and  done 
with  ever  so  long  ago.  You  seem  to  think  more  about  what 
happened  a  hundred  years  ago  than  about  what  happens 
now." 

"There  isn't  much  that  does  happen  now,  is  there?" 

"There's  Ambrose's  letter  always,"  said  Thyrza  naively. 
"There,  you  finish  that,"  she  said,  thrusting  her  sewing  at 
Damaris. 

"Oh,  Thyrza,  Thyrza,  what  cobbling,"  sighed  Damaris 
with  a  half-smile,  as  she  inspected  the  work.  She  had  con- 
stantly to  play  the  part  of  Penelope,  and  rip  out  at  night  the 
work  done  by  day  on  the  cobwebby  garments  that  Thyrza 
18 


4 


274  A  Man  of  Genius 

handled  so  lovingly  and  so  inefficiently.  "And  have  you 
read  your  history  yet  ?"  asked  Damaris,  lapsing  virtuously 
into  the  schoolmistress. 

"No;  I  forgot,"  said  Thyrza  mendaciously.  " Ambrose- 
won 't  love  me  any  more  for  knowing  who  Drake  was." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Damaris  with  an  edge  in  her  voice; 
"but  there  are  other  things  in  the  world  for  you  besides 
Ambrose,  I  suppose." 

"Only  his  baby,"  said  Thyrza  shamelessly,  as  she 
luxuriously  stretched  her  arms  to  the  radiant  sky. 

So  it  always  ended.  The  History  oj  the  English  People 
was  usually  defeat  number  one  for  Damaris,  the  French 
exercise,  scribbled  and  illegible,  always  defeat  number  two, 
in  this  tussle  of  the  studies. 

On  the  other  hand,  Thyrza  greedily  devoured  any  story 
with  a  homely,  familiar  atmosphere,  and  Silas  Marner  was 
the  greatest  comfort  in  those  days  to  poor  Damaris,  as  she 
waged  a  losing  fight  with  a  mind  devoid  of  background; 
for  over  the  village  pictures  of  that  exquisite  idyll  Thyrza 
would  pore  by  the  hour.  Damaris  congratulated  herself 
on  the  fact  that  the  girl  turned  to  it,  instead  of  to  the  highly- 
spiced  tales  of  fashionable  life  that  she  had  feared  would 
be  the  chief  attraction  for  her  in  the  book  world.  But  there 
was,  in  truth,  no  trace  of  snobbery  in  such  a  child  of  the 
nature  powers.  At  last,  Thyrza's  impulsive,  outspoken 
womanliness,  at  once  her  greatest  danger  and  her  greatest 
charm,  vanquished  even  her  slack  habit  of  prevaricating; 
for,  as  in  a  little  animal,  fear  alone  aroused  deception  in 
her,  and  she  had  no  longer  any  fear  of  either  Mr.  Westaway 
or  Damaris. 

Ultimately  Thyrza's  preceptress  gave  up  the  struggle  to 
educate  by  books,  for  a  far  older  teacher  than  Damaris  had 
taken  the  girl-wife  by  the  hand,  and  as  the  glory  of  the 
summer  noons  widened  into  ever  greater  brilliance,  Thyrza 


The  Cradle  of  a  Child 


275 


entered  into  the  lyric  rapture  of  natural  motherhood,  lapped 
like  a  child  in  the  peace  of  happy  waiting. 

The  sight  of  nature's  wonder-working  liand,  indeed, 
taught  Damaris  the  great  lesson  she  needed.  For  the  first 
effect  of  contact  with  the  old  devil  of  the  flesh  in  women 
whose  lives  have  been  passed  in  nun-like  seclusion  is  a 
strained  seeking  after  spirituality.  They  become  bitter 
maids,  to  whom  the  warmth  of  life  is  no  better  than  the 
sun  kissing  carrion.  Damaris  was  saved  from  this  fate  by 
learning,  as  she  watched  Thyrza,  that  even  the  flesh  has 
its  noble  part  to  play  in  the  growth  of  the  spirit. 

In  her  green  dress,  hatless  and  untrammelled,  directly 
her  share  of  the  household  work  was  done,  Thyrza  would 
start  for  the  cliffs,  where  in  some  shaded  cranny  she  would 
sit  for  hours,  crooning  to  herself  low  snatches  of  the  tunes 
she  had  learnt  from  Ambrose.  Every  evening  Damaris 
could  hear,  as  :he  returned,  the  notes  of  ''The  Wind  Among 
the  Barley." 

7^ 


fcj^M  K  i=N  I   h  I   hir  r^ 


p^r:-- 


I 


mf 


— M^=^ 


tj 


"MOWING  THE  BARLEY." 
By  permission  of  the  collectors  of  the  Folk  Songs  from  Somerset, 
Mr.  Cecil  J.  Sharp  and  the  Rev.  Charles  L.  Marson. 


276  A  Man  of  Genius 

Over  and  over  again  she  sang  them  from  a  body  pulsing 
with  the  sun's  kiss  and  v^ild  with  the  whisper  of  the  sea 
wind.  Then,  poppy-sweet  with  sunshine  and  freshness,  she 
would  lie  on  the  couch  with  Danny,  often  falling  asleep  to 
the  sound  of  Mr.  Westaway's  voice  as  he  read  aloud  some 
story  of  the  childhood  of  the  world.  Every  night  she  slept 
in  moonlight  or  in  starlight,  and  the  languor  of  summer 
only  strengthened  the  life-power  of  her  heart,  till  even 
Ambrose's  letters  had  little  power  to  rouse  her. 

At  night  she  would  whisper  to  Damaris,  "He's  coming 
very  near  now.  Every  day  he's  coming  faster  and  faster 
to  me." 

And  it  was  not  of  Ambrose  that  she  spoke. 

But  the  radiant  well-being  ceased  in  Thyrza  when  the 
valleys  began  to  fill  every  evening  with  "the  cloud  of  the 
night,"  as  country  people  call  the  low-lying  meadow  fogs, 
and  as  the  sea-wind  sighed  o'  nights  across  the  window- 
panes.  The  touch  of  chill  gave  Thyrza  a  pinched  look  that 
only  died  away  from  her  in  the  brilliant  noonday  sunshine. 

Damaris  sent  for  a  white  fur  cloak,  hoping  that  the 
warm  luxury  and  beauty  of  the  garment  would  soothe  the 
child;  but  though  she  wore  it  gratefully  enough,  the  spirit 
of  sad  restlessness  increased,  till,  whenever  the  sea  was 
moaning  in  the  long  nights,  Damaris  got  into  the  habit  of 
crossing  from  her  own  room  to  Thyrza's  and  lying  down 
beside  the  little  piece  of  magnetic  life. 

"I  haven't  been  in  rages  much  lately,  have  I?"  asked 
Thyrza  one  night  as  they  lay  listening  to  the  wind  in  the 
chimney-tops.    "I  remembered  that  I  mustn't  now." 

"You've  been  very  good,"  said  Damaris. 

"I'm  not  afraid  with  you,  somehow,"  answered  Thyrza. 

"Why  are  you  afraid,  child?" 

"'Tis  all  dark  in  front.  Nobody  knows  what  there  may 
be  waiting  for  a  body." 


The  Cradle  of  a  Child  277 

"Do  you  mean  in  the  future?" 

"Iss;  what's  to  be  is  hid.  There's  somcthinf;  bchinrl  the 
child.  Behind  all  I  know  that's  coming,  there's  something 
else." 

"The  child's  father,  you  mean.'' 

"No;  I  don't  mean  him.  There's  something  else — 
waiting." 

"You  don't  feel  ill,  do  you,  Thyrza?" 

"Not  a  bit.  'Tisn't  that;  it's  something  a  long  way  off. 
But  I  want  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me  all  for  the  way  I  woukhi't 
write  my  exercises.  For  I  know  that,  deep  down,  you 
don't  really  love  me — not  really.  You're  only  sorry  because 
I've  been  light." 

"Not  now,  Thyrza,  not  now,"  cried  Damaris.  "I  own 
that  once  you  seemed  to  me  not  really  womanly,  but  I  know 
that  now  there  is  the  true  woman  being  born." 

Somehow,  to  Damaris,  Thyrza  seemed  infinitely  precious, 
a  treasure  won  from  the  seven  devils  of  spiritual  emptiness. 
She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  her  tenderly,  as  a  child 
stealthily  touches  a  beloved  possession.  For  Thyrza  was 
being  star-led,  like  the  wizards  of  old,  to  the  cradle  of  a 
little  child,  where  in  the  wonder  of  birth  she  was  to  put  her 
hand  on  one  of  the  secrets  of  the  unseen  from  which  life 
comes. 


I 


CHAPTER  XVII 
•THE  MYSTERY  PLAY 

OVER  the  tables  in  Mr.  Trevithick's  workroom  the 
swing  Hghts  in  their  green  shades  threw  circles  of 
light  on  the  great  sheets  of  architect's  plans  that  lay  every- 
where. From  the  open  windows  came,  in  the  night  still- 
ness, the  lapping  of  the  water  against  the  edge  of  the  quay. 

''Now,"  said  the  senior  partner  to  Ambrose,  as  they  both 
lit  their  pipes  and  leant  back  in  their  chairs,  "what  you 
want  is  staying  power;  you've  no  balance.  You  put  furious 
energy  into  some  simple  task  that  doesn't  want  it — and  then, 
ouf  1  you're  down  again,  done,  in  body  and  mind.  I  beheve 
you  spend  as  much  force  cleaning  your  teeth  of  a  morning 
as  Cobbledick  does  over  a  day's  work.  Not  that  I  want  you 
to  emulate  Cobbledick's  achievements." 

Mr.  Trevithick  had  a  fine  mellow  voice,  and  his  laugh 
was  as  kindly  as  his  nature.  The  two  men  had  been  sitting 
till  past  midnight  over  a  plan  that  ought  to  have  been 
posted  in  the  morning  to  the  secretary  of  a  committee. 
However,  it  was  now  gone,  and  Mr.  Trevithick  was  perfectly 
aware  that  people  who  knew  him  allowed  a  margin  when 
they  named  a  time. 

He  now  sat  well  into  the  fireplace,  so  that  the  smoke 
from  his  pipe  might  escape  by  the  chimney.  It  was  a 
habit  derived  from  the  time  when,  in  his  mother's  cottage, 
he  had  been  allowed  one  pipe  a  night — after  she  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  smoke  regularly  puffed  into  her  room 
above  from  the  chimney,  but  it  gave  her  a  homely  feeling, 
V-  278 


The  Mystery  Play  279 

and  it  is  possible  that  the  scent  of  Sam's  pipe  might  have 
added  a  joy  to  the  golden  pavements  up  above,  had  a 
smoke-ring  been  suffered  to  escape  through   the  interstices. 

''I  know,  sir,"  said  Ambrose,  ruffling  his  hair;  ''but 
there  are  such  a  devilish  number  of  tricks  a  fellow  has  to 
wring  the  neck  of  in  himself." 

Mr.  Trevithick,  who  habitually  understated  in  his  desire 
to  be  accurate,  hated  strong  language  even  more  than  the 
would-be  smartness  of  epigram;  he  remained  a  peasant, 
with  a  peasant's  suspicion  of  anything  facile  or  glib.  He 
went  on  more  seriously,  for  he  suspected  Ambrose  of  a 
spice  of  flippancy. 

*'Now,  that  won't  do.  It  may  be  all  very  well  to  fret 
and  fume,  for  a  great  man  who  can  live  by  two  hours'  con- 
centrated labour;  but  you'll  have  to  work  all  day  and  half 
the  night  for  many  a  year  to  come." 

With  eyebrows  raised  almost  to  his  thinning  locks,  Mr. 
Trevithick  lectured  on. 

"In  this  trade  a  man  who  goes  far  has  to  run  long,  and 
that's  all  there  is  about  it." 

He  watched  a  pupil  in  whom  he  was  interested  as  he 
would  have  watched  a  new  "staying"  process,  for  to  Mr. 
Trevithick  the  only  difference  between  men  and  material 
was  that,  unfortunately,  the  men  were  not  the  same  grain 
all  through. 

"Do  you  know  why  I  never  sent  you  again  to  Tona- 
combe  ?  " 

"I  supposed  it  must  be  because  the  work  was  badly 
done." 

"No;  'twasn't  ill  done."  This  was  the  highest  praise 
ever  extracted  from  the  senior  partner,  who  was  never  well, 
but  always  "middling,"  and  never  prosperous,  but  always 
"rubbing  along."  He  had,  in  fact,  nothing  of  the  business 
instinct  that  makes  a  man  perpetually  seem  busier  than  he 


28o  A  Man  of  Genius 

is.  "But  you've  got  to  learn  to  take  what  comes  along. 
It  was  a  bit  of  a  lesson  for  you  when  Jerman  gave  it  to 
another  chap.  But  now  that  we've  seen  what  you're  like 
in  the  office,  I  want  to  put  your  nose  to  the  grindstone  at 
outside  work.  I'm  going  to  send  you  over  to  Instow  to 
work  at  that  schoolhouse,  and  after  a  bit  I  shall  put  you 
there  as  clerk  of  works.  There's  too  much  theory  about 
you;  a  bath  of  bricks  and  mortar's  capital  for  that  com- 
plaint." 

Ambrose  flushed  rather  angrily,  for  he  had  been  at  work 
all  day  and  his  nerves  were  on  edge.  Yet  he  knew  that  he 
v/as  getting  the  best  possible  training,  and  he  went  back  to 
his  lodgings  treading  on  air,  to  lie  awake  for  hours  in  a 
brain-whirl  of  imaginary  labours  and  difficulties.  For  a 
clerk  of  works  has  to  pass,  not  only  building  stuff,  but 
men,  and  is  expected  to  guide  his  principal  in  the  tender 
subject  of  money  advances  to  builders,  since  he  is  on  the 
spot  and  can  tell  a  man's  financial  standing  better  than 
his  chief  who  spends  an  hour  or  two  at  the  works.  It  is  a 
double  test  of  grip  and  honesty,  of  sense  and  foresight. 

The  senior  partner  often  said  that  he  spent  his  time 
being  ground  fine  between  the  nether  millstone  and  the 
upper.  Though  his  person  was  not  affected  thereby,  his 
temper  certainly  was,  for  his  clients  wanted  the  utmost 
expenditure  of  effort  from  him  at  the  smallest  possible 
cost  to  themselves,  and  the  pupils  worked  with  one  eye 
fixed  on  the  clock.  But  in  Ambrose  he  had  found  a  pupil 
who  would  work  after  hours,  toiling  at  the  mechanical 
labour  of  specifications  or  plans  as  cheerfully  at  midnight 
as  at  mid-day,  and  Mrs.  Trevithick  saw  less  of  her  husband 
than  ever,  for  the  senior  partner  paid  Ambrose  for  his 
help  by  opening  up  the  stores  of  his  experience.  And  in 
everything  he  did  Mr.  Trevithick  gave  good  measure. 

In  the  months  that  followed  Ambrose  learnt  to  love  the 


The  Mystery  Play  281 

tinkle  of  the  mason's  trowel,  the  tapping  of  the  carj^enter's 
hammer,  the  rattle  and  fall  of  loads  of  bricks.  For  there 
is  a  joy  in  the  master)'  of  things  that  nothing  else  can  give 
— in  the  handling  of  stone  and  clay  a  faint  shadowing  forth 
of  the  creative  thrill  that  forms  a  universe  from  the  germ 
of  protoplasm.  Yet,  sometimes  he  felt  a  passing  sense  of 
regret,  for  in  the  hot  noon  of  the  workaday  world  his  boyish 
visions  seemed  to  have  about  them  the  still  beauty  of  the 
dawn;  so  the  woman  in  her  kingdom  may  look  back  on 
the  maid  that  once  drew  aside  the  curtains  of  life. 

They  were  ugly,  too,  very  often,  these  schoolrooms  and 
chapels,  ver}'  far  indeed  from  the  pillared  vistas  of  his 
dreams.  They  even  had  the  sash  windows,  which  Ambrose, 
as  a  devout  lover  of  Gothic,  had  learnt  to  abhor.  Yet  in 
material,  at  least,  they  were  honest,  and  honesty  in  archi- 
tecture is  what  truth  is  in  theology,  knowledge  in  law,  and 
faithfulness  in  medicine — the  supreme  test  of  a  man's 
worth. 

"I  suppose,"  said  'Mr.  Pearse  to  Ambrose  one  night,  as 
he  met  him  coming  back  from  work,  **you  couldn't  spare 
a  minute  to  look  at  a  little  lot  I've  got  here?" 

It  was  a  mere  ja^on  de  parler  by  way  of  apology,  and 
Ambrose  followed  the  grocer  as  far  as  a  field,  marked  by 
one  of  those  melancholy  notice-boards  that  herald  the 
approaching  death  of  some  bit  of  natural  beauty  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  town. 

"Fine  site,  isn't  it?"  said  Mr.  Pearse.  "I've  just  bought 
it,  and  I'm  going  to  run  up  a  villa  here.  We're  tired  of  the 
racket  of  a  business  house,  and  the  air's  better  up 
here.' 

"You'll  come  to  us,  I  suppose,"  said  Ambrose,  thinking 
gleefully  how  the  senior  partner  would  squirm  at  the 
buttonholing  that  would  be  his  portion  at  Mr.  Pearse's 
hands. 


282  A  Man  of  Genius 

"I'm  coming  to  you,"  said  he,  with  a  twinkle.  "You've 
taste,  that  I  can  see,  and  I'd  like  to  give  'ee  a  leg  up.  Now, 
you  can  knock  together  a  nice  little  plan  for  me,  and  if 
there  are  points  in  it  that  I  haven't  a  mind  to,  why,  we'll 
go  over  them  together." 

Mr.  Pearse  calculated  that  he  was  doing  a  good  stroke 
of  business  for  himself,  since  Mr.  Trevithick,  as  befitted  a 
master-workman,  was  autocratic,  but  with  a  'prentice  hand 
he  himself  could  do  all  the  planning  as  a  hobby  and  quote 
enormously  from  The  Seven  Lamps.  Besides,  Ambrose 
would  be  cheap. 

"Couldn't  be  done,  Mr.  Pearse,"  said  Ambrose. 

"Oh,  come  now.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while,  for  I'm 
prepared  to  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  let  me  tell  you. 
And  when  you're  up  in  the  world,  William  Pearse  will  be 
proud  to  remember  he  gave  you  your  first  order." 

Ambrose  laughed  outright  in  joy  at  the  man's  naive 
delight  in  his  own  patronage. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Pearse,"  he  said;  "you  see  I'm  in  the 
firm  of  Trevithick  and  Jerman.  I  can't  take  private  jobs, 
though,  of  course,  I'm  much  flattered  by  your  offer." 

To  Mr.  Pearse's  commercial  experience  this  only  signi- 
fied "putting  a  figure  on  himself"  on  Ambrose's  part. 
Accordingly  he  named  his  price  for  the  plan  and  ultimately 
doubled  it,  but  in  vain,  till  at  last  he  departed  in  high 
dudgeon  at  the  airs  of  understrappers. 

In  nothing  is  it  more  true  than  in  the  handling  of  money 
that  the  hand  gets  engrained  with  what  it  works  in,  for  its 
power  suggests  the  sudden  ease  with  which  a  man  rises  at 
the  completion  of  a  long,  lonely  task  and  goes  out  into  the 
gay  bustle  of  the  streets.  Especially  by  a  man  in  Ambrose 
Velly's  position  everything  is  tried  by  the  golden  standard; 
for  the  thickness  of  walls,  the  depth  of  cement,  the  width 
of  corridors,  depend  on  this  tiny  symbol,  and  every  oppor- 


The  Mystery  Play  283 

tunity  of  beauty  and  convenience  is  weighed  in  the  balance 
of  a  cheque.  As  for  himself,  he  sometimes  felt  like  an 
Atlas  heaving  the  muscles  of  his  body  to  cast  off  the  burdens 
that  oppressed.  Yet  the  mood  of  depression  seldom 
lasted  long;  for  it  was  the  lures  of  the  world,  rather  than 
its  drawbacks,  that  provided  a  pitfall  for  Ambrose. 

Mentally  he  was  weak  in  construction  as  an  architect, 
but  strong  in  detailed  ornament.  He  could  sketch  decora- 
tions for  wall  spaces,  for  cornices  and  niches,  so  rapidly 
that  his  fancy  outstripped  his  hand.  Every  time  the  men 
at  the  office  watched  him  work  in  this  manner,  he  saw  the 
vision  of  a  school  of  designers,  trained  by  himself,  as  by  a 
craftsman  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Behind  all,  there  was  the 
power,  the  uplift,  that  the  grey  walls  of  Tonacombe  could 
give.  For  the  land  hunger  bit  sore  in  the  days  when  a 
bed-sitting  room  in  a  row  of  brick-built  boxes  was  his  fate. 

He  knew  the  itch  of  power,  though  not  the  itch  of  covetous- 
ness. 

Coming  into  the  office  next  morning,  he  received  a 
message  to  go  straight  up  to  the  senior  partner's  room. 
He  found  Mr.  Trevithick  with  his  share  of  the  morning's 
mail,  the  sifted  portion  that  had  passed  the  rough  filter- 
bed  below. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  putting  a  letter  into  Ambrose's 
hand. 

It  was  a  request  from  a  London  firm  that  a  good  draughts- 
man should  be  sent  at  once  for  a  two  months'  engagement 
on  detailed  drawings  for  several  sets  of  designs  that  were 
wanted  immediately. 

''Like  to  go?"  asked  Mr.  Trevithick. 

It  was  good  pay  and  it  was  London.  Moreover,  the 
work  was  well  within  his  powers,  and  there  would  be  a  solid 
satisfaction  in  undertaking  it.  Yet  he  hesitated. 

"You  think  you're  too  good  for  the  work,  perhaps," 


284  A  Man  of  Genius 

said  Mr.  Trevithick  testily.  He  was  apt  to  be  gouty  and 
snappish  in  the  morning. 

"That's  not  it,  sir,  at  all.  I  should  like  the  job  very 
much,  but  I  must  let  my  wife  know  before  I  settle  on  any- 
thing." 

''It'll  do  you  good  to  get  into  fresher  air,  for  you've  pretty 
well  sucked  the  ozone  out  of  Bideford  air.  Not  that  it  takes 
long  to  do  that." 

''I'd  like  to  go.  But  it's  my  wife.  I  don't  know  that 
she'll  want  me  to  go  so  far." 

"Feeling  his  chains  a  bit,"  shrugged  Mr.  Trevithick  to 
himself.  Aloud  he  said,  "Ride  over  and  see  her  this  morn- 
ing, and  we'll  wire  to-night.    That'll  be  soon  enough." 

"He'll  go,  if  I  know  a  woman  when  I  see  one,"  said  the 
senior  partner  to  himself  as  Ambrose  left.  For  during  her 
one  visit  to  her  husband  at  Bideford,  Mr.  Trevithick  had 
been  greatly  struck  by  Thyrza's  simple  directness,  her 
wide-eyed  glance  and  freedom  from  pretence.  Wife  as  she 
was,  she  retained  the  virginal  touch  that  never  leaves  a 
woman  who  is  a  mere  instrument  of  nature.  Under  the 
deepening  influences  of  her  life  it  almost  touched  austerity, 
and  the  austere  is  never  more  penetrating  in  charm  than 
when  it  is  suggested  amidst  the  opulence  of  physical  beauty. 
Such  a  woman  as  that  would  have,  so  Mr.  Trevithick 
thought,  but  little  of  the  merely  feminine  about  her,  and 
he  was  a  good  judge  of  the  feminine,  for  he  had  made  a 
life-long  study  of  it  in  his  wife.  Yet,  he  understood  Thyrza, 
whom  he  had  seen  for  an  hour,  better  than  his  wife,  whom 
he  had  known  for  twenty  years.  For  it  is  the  people  we 
live  with  whom  we  know  least. 

Ambrose,  directed  by  Damaris,  found  his  wife  that  after- 
noon on  Wimbury  Head,  as  she  sat  facing  the  dim  lines  of 
the  far-off  Welsh  coast. 

The  surface  of  the  sea,  far  below  the  ramparts  of  the 


The  Mystery  Play  285 

prehistoric  hill  encampment,  was  heaving  slowly  in  the 
wide  breaths  of  placid  sleep.  In  the  west,  from  beneath 
the  cloud  that  obscured  the  sun's  disc,  a  mist  of  light, 
sulphurous-red  in  splendour  like  a  gauze  of  blood,  veiled 
all  the  distant  peaks  of  the  coast-line,  till  they  vanished  in 
a  mystery  of  fire.  Across  the  heaving  steel-blue  mirror  of 
the  sea  the  sun  sent  towards  the  east  a  long  searchlight, 
that  fell  on  the  two  tree-crowned  cliffs  that  tower  below 
the  jutting  tableland  of  Gallantry  Bower.  Slowly  the  red- 
gold  ray  glorified  each  peak  in  turn,  transforming  the  rock- 
shapes  into  a  summer  of  light  and  warmth,  and,  as  it  passed 
to  the  next  cliff,  leaving  black  chasms  of  darkness  in  the 
cavernous  bays.  Across  the  red  ray,  mid-way  between 
cliff  top,  and  wave-foam,  seamews,  hovering  for  a  second, 
poised  and  floated  into  the  surrounding  shadow. 

In  this  vision  of  splendour  the  senses  were  absorbed  in 
the  pleasure  of  sight,  but  as  the  grey  depths  conquered, 
the  ear  was  filled  once  more  with  the  roar  of  the  ground 
sea  that  echoed  along  the  whole  coast,  till  nothing  was 
left  but  the  weaving  of  sound  in  a  rhythm  of  ceaseless 
music. 

From  this  Thyrza  turned  with  a  sense  that  she  was  no 
longer  alone.  She  grew  very  pale  when  she  saw  who  it  was 
that  disturbed  her  reverie,  for  a  week-day  visit  from  Am- 
brose was  an  unprecedented  event. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  drawing  her  down  by  his  side,  "I've 
got  some  good  news  for  you.  The  Chief  wants  me  to  go  to 
London  as  a  draughtsman  for  a  couple  of  months.  He's  a 
thorough  good  chap,  and  he  throws  chance  after  chance  in 
my  way.  This  will  mean  an  opportunity  to  get  in  touch 
with  the  headquarters  of  things." 

Thyrza  shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  tr>'ing  to  realise  how 
the  busy  whirlpool  of  city  life  must  call  to  a  man.  Yet 
she  could  not  do  it,  for  in  the  little  round  of  sameness  that 


286  A  Man  of  Genius 

was  hers,  nothing  could  be  stranger  than  the  hurrying  rush 
of  a  business  man's  Hfe.  All  she  knew  was  that  he  was  going, 
and  was  glad  to  go.  Yet  she  fought  for  self-possession. 

''When  do  you  go?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"  To-morrow  or  next  day,  I  suppose.  If  I  can  get  off,  that 
is.    Aren't  you  glad  for  me  ?    But  I  wish  it  wasn't  just  now." 

''Oh,  I'm  glad  you  said  that,"  she  burst  out,  "for  we 
may  not  meet  again,  you  know." 

"Thyrza,  for  God's  sake,  don't  talk  like  that.  I  ought 
to  have  thought,  but  I'll  not  go.  No,  I'll  tell  the  Chief  how 
things  stand." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  go.  I  wouldn't  keep  you,  for  a  man 
must  go  where  his  work  calls  him.  But,  Ambrose,  there's 
something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about.  It's  this.  We're 
taking  too  much  from  the  Westaways;  we've  thrown  our- 
selves on  them  as  if  we  were  helpless.  I  don't  like  it. 
You  may  not  mind,  but  I  do.  For  we're  taking  more  than 
we  can  ever  pay  back.  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  live  with 
your  mother,  if  I  couldn't  live  with  you." 

"I  don't  feel  that,  for  they  both  love  you,  my  Thyrza." 

"It's  not  for  me  they  do  it,  it's  for  you." 

"It's  too  late,  now,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
with  a  dull  sense  of  annoyance.  "Oh,  Thyrza,  don't  spoil 
the  last  minutes  we  can  have  together  for  ever  so  long." 

She  laughed.  "What  a  child  you  are,  Ambrose.  If  there 
was  the  leastest  little  sweet  at  the  bottom  of  a  barrel  of 
shavings,  you'd  be  sure  to  find  it." 

"Of  course  I  would.  That's  my  philosophy,  and  it's 
better  than  Marcus  Aurelius  or  Confucius,  or  any  philo- 
sophical Johnny  whatsoever.  Come,  let's  get  into  the 
sunshine.    It's  cold  and  dark  here." 

At  this  practical  expression  of  his  philosophy  she  laughed 
again,  and  as  they  walked  along  the  cHff,  following  the  sun- 
light, she  grew  reconciled  to  Ambrose's  absence,  for  nothing 


The  Mystery  Play  287 

in  his  living  presence  could  long  withstand  his  deep-seated 
happiness  of  disposition, 

''It's  been  a  wonderful  summer,"  she  said,  ''and  when 
you  come  again  there'll  be  something  for  you  to  see,  perhaps. 
A  new  friend — a  Httle,  little  friend,  Ambrose." 

She  suddenly  sobbed  to  herself  in  the  luxur}'  of  self-pity. 

"But,"  she  continued,  "I  love  you  true,  Ambrose,  and 
you're  to  be  a  great  man.  Now  that  I've  a  man,  and  am 
soon  to  have  a  man-child,  I  must  be  great,  too,  and  bear 
things." 

It  was  her  confession  of  faith. 

Watching  her,  Ambrose  weakened  unaccountably.  "I 
can't  go  and  leave  you  like  this,"  he  said.    "I  really  can't." 

"Yes,  you  can,"  said  Thyrza.  It  was  a  favourite  phrase 
of  his,  and  they  had  often  laughed  over  it.  Yet  it  was  a 
fresh  pang  to  Thyrza  to  remember  the  occasions  on  which 
he  had  used  it.  At  last  she  whispered,  "Now  I  want  you 
to  go  and  leave  me  here,  for  I  don't  want  to  see  people 
just  yet.  After  all,  I'm  almost  glad  it's  happened;  for  you 
do  care,  and  I  wasn't  quite  sure  you  would.  Now  go  and  be 
a  great  man." 

He  laughed,  as  he  held  her  for  a  moment,  at  this  sketch 
of  his  future  business  in  life.  Yet  it  was  a  bitter  moment, 
even  to  him. 

When  she  looked  round  from  the  sun  he  was  out  of 
sight,  hurraing  down  the  headland  as  fast  as  his  feet  would 
carry  him.  At  Beckland  he  found  Mr.  Westaway  alone 
in  the  sitting-room,  playing  patience  at  the  old  "gate" 
table,  which  Danny  hated,  for  the  square  frame  of  it 
got  in  his  way.  Damans  considered  those  games  of  patience 
a  triumph  on  her  part,  f(jr  at  first  Mr.  Westaway  had 
abjured  all  the  small  alleviations  of  life,  including  patience 
and  backgammon,  in  the  austere  monkishness  that  had 
become  a  mania  with  him. 


288  A  Man  of  Genius 

One  night  she  placed  a  small  case  of  patience  cards  on 
his  writing-table  and  silently  watched  the  effect  of  sugges- 
tion when  her  father  came  in,  tired  from  an  afternoon's 
gardening.  She  laughed  softly  as  he  took  up  the  case  and, 
automatically  dealing  out  the  cards,  began  a  game. 

It  was  incomprehensible  to  him  when,  in  a  sudden 
outburst  of  pleasure  at  her  own  perspicacity,  she  implanted 
a  kiss  on  the  back  of  his  head.      Then  it  dawned  on  him. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "here  I  am  at  my  old  tricks  again. 
But  where  did  the  cards  come  from?" 

"I  sent  for  them,"  laughed  Damaris,  happy  at  seeing 
him  return  to  some  of  his  old  ways. 

Ambrose  thought  that  Mr.  Westaway's  changed  method 
of  Hfe  had  added  years  to  his  age.  The  sudden  upheaval 
of  his  will,  that  had  ended  in  his  leaving  the  Church, 
seemed  almost  a  last  effort  of  expiring  vitaHty.  For  every 
new  environment  demands  fresh  powers  of  reaction, 
powers  in  which  old  age  is  necessarily  deficient.  One 
must  be  young  to  enjoy  experiment,  and  it  was  a  hard 
deprivation  for  Mr.  Westaway  to  miss  the  routine  of  a 
bustling  life  of  small  engagements,  and  harder  still  to  feel 
that  all  his  effort  would  leave  hardly  a  ripple  on  the  sea  of 
life.  Merely  a  new  type  of  institution  and  an  empty  pro- 
test against  the  current  of  the  day's  thought. 

For  Mr.  Westaway  longed  vainly,  like  many  men  of  his 
generation,  for  some  great  conception  that  should  ennoble 
both  personal  and  national  life.  Yet,  in  the  shifting  sands 
of  a  period  of  religious  transition,  he  foimd  nothing  solid  in 
the  creeds,  nothing  noble  in  the  material  poHtics  of  his  day, 
for  the  mean  success  of  commercialism  has,  for  the  time,  be- 
littled our  hopes  of  human  greatness.  Sadly,  then,  he  raised 
an  altar  to  an  unknown  God,  who  rules  by  causes  that  are 
hard  to  see  and  effects  that  are  harder  still  to  bear.  Yet, 
like  many  thinkers  before  him,  he  found  comfort  in  the 


The  Mystery  Play  289 

simple  tasks  of  helpfulness,  and  every  stone  of  the  new 
building  that  was  rising  in  London,  every  medical  dis- 
covery that  could  affect  child-life,  was  followed  by  him  with 
an  intensity  of  imaginative  sympathy  that  was  heightened 
by  his  delicate  health  and  consequent  aloofness  from  the 
concerns  of  active  life. 

When  Ambrose  had  gone,  Damaris  went  out  to  the  yard 
behind  to  search  in  the  hen-house  for  eggs  wherewith  to 
make  pancakes  for  Thyrza's  supper,  while  Mrs.  Velly  stood 
watching  her  son  ride  away.  Then  the  two  women  glanced 
across  the  duck  pond  at  one  another,  with  a  thought  in 
common  of  Thyrza  to  whom  his  departure  would  be  a 
great  sorrow.  For  the  waiting  time  that  is  woman's  special 
lot  had  drawn  the  women  at  Beckland  very  close  together. 

When  Thyrza  at  last  returned  Damaris  caught  her  cold 
hands.  "My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "you're  so  cold.  Why 
did  you  stay  so  late?" 

"I  was  getting  used  to  things,"  said  Thyrza,  "and  it 
took  a  time;  for  self's  like  an  onion  that'll  spoil  a  dozen  pans 
of  milk  and  come  up  as  strong  as  ever  in  the  boiling." 

Then  she  added,  with  a  quaver,  "Did  you  see  'en?" 

"Yes,"  said  Damaris,  "and  in  two  months'  time  he'll  be 
back." 

"And  he'll  be  here,  too,"  said  Thyrza  with  an  April 
smile.  For  to  these  women  "he"  was  already  an  inmate 
of  Beckland,  and  his  wardrobe  was  nightly  smoothed  by 
his  mother's  dimpled  hands. 

Had  they  sufficiently  realised  Ambrose  Velly's  hfe 
during  these  first  London  months,  Damaris  and  Thyrza 
would  have  recognised  in  his  letters  the  most  promising 
augury  for  the  future.  For  that  they  came  regularly  was 
proof  positive  of  the  hold  a  kindly  tenderness  still  exercised 
over  him. 

To  a  sensitive  mind  the  first  inrush  of  city  life  is  over- 

19 


290  A  Man  of  Genius 

whelming,  confusing,  even  painful,  like  the  pressing  urgency 
of  a  great  crowd.  It  swamps  all  past  experience  in  a 
violent  outburst  of  new  sensations,  till  out  of  the  ferment 
of  stimulus  the  mind  begins  to  distinguish  the  separate 
strands  of  influence  that  work  on  it. 

It  is  common  to  speak  of  the  temptations  of  great  cities; 
it  would  be  more  true  to  speak  of  the  infinite  upHft  pro- 
vided by  the  spectacle  of  effort  all  round,  of  active  con- 
tinuous effort  in  every  direction,  of  effort  to  conquer,  to 
win,  to  gain  a  share  of  the  good  things  on  the  splendidly 
furnished  tables  of  life.  To  pass  from  ofl&ce  to  street,  from 
shop  to  theatre,  from  Westminster  to  the  Inns  of  Court,  is 
like  being  in  the  centre  of  a  magnetic  storm.  It  is  truly 
the  greatest  magnetic  storm  ever  experienced  on  our 
planet,  this  city  life,  for  the  electrical  flow  that  carries  our 
messages  is  nothing  beside  the  human  will  to  live  that 
eddies  all  around. 

Ambrose  bathed  in  it,  till  the  sense  of  Hfe  thrilled  in 
brain  and  nerve  fibre,  driving  out  the  passion  of  the  flesh 
for  the  time,  and  substituting  a  finer  ferment.  By  the  side 
of  this  fiery  flow  of  the  higher  energies  the  country  air 
seemed  leaden.  In  the  city  the  atmosphere  was  tense  with 
the  fighting  instincts.  When  the  great  lights  flared  and  the 
sky-signs  gleamed  under  the  stars,  Ambrose  felt  one  unit 
of  the  procession  of  Hfe  that  passes,  falls  often,  stumbling 
in  the  darkness — but  sometimes  wins.  He  was  frequently 
flushed  in  those  days,  but  not  with  any  wine,  save  the  wine 
of  life;  frequently  thrilHng,  but  seldom  with  the  pulse  of  the 
flesh.  For  the  stimulus  to  the  higher  gratifications  only 
begins  to  fail  when  the  sense  of  baffled  powers  beats  back 
the  soul  to  lower  joys. 

Yet  there  was  a  fierceness  about  this  city  life  that  appalled 
the  country  lad,  fresh  from  the  brotherliness  of  a  small 
town.     The  continuously  changing  faces  of  millions  to 


The  Mystery  Play  291 

whom  he  was  nothing,  the  hard  self-centredness  of  every- 
one, gave  him,  at  first,  a  sense  of  the  black  loneliness  that 
pierces  to  the  very  marrow  of  the  spirit.  For  a  time  it  was 
even  a  relief  to  nod  familiarly  to  an  omnibus  driver,  to 
recognise  a  cabman,  or  a  policeman  on  his  beat,  to  know 
that,  for  a  second  at  least,  Ambrose  Velly  had  emerged  in 
somebody's  mind  as  an  individuality. 

Then  the  black  mood  passed,  for  the  city  gave  him  a 
niche.  Above  all,  she  showed  him  what  youth  specially 
needs  to  learn,  the  line  of  least  resistance  for  his  efforts. 

One  night,  a  few  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  London,  Am- 
brose entered  a  city  church  and  sat  down  for  a  moment. 
For  the  miraculous  had  taken  place,  and  fair}'land  had  been 
realised  on  the  solid  earth.  The  whole  profession  was 
buzzing  with  the  recent  success  of  a  young  architect  who 
had  gained  in  open  competition  the  prize  for  a  design  of  a 
cathedral.  Full  of  the  spirit  of  "what  man  has  done,  man 
can  do,"  Ambrose  sat  Ustening  to  the  war-march  that  was 
booming  from  the  organ,  in  the  dim  silence  of  the  place, 
where  the  murmur  of  London  sounded  as  dreamlike  as  the 
roar  of  the  waves  in  a  sea-shell. 

"The  music  for  strife,"  he  thought,  "and  the  building 
for  rest — the  two  sides  of  art.  For  Hfe  is  tidal;  rest  is  fol- 
lowed by  toil,  war  by  peace,  light  by  darkness."  He  almost 
fell  asleep,  till,  as  if  a  hand  had  ripped  apart  a  curtain,  he 
sat  bolt  upright,  his  pulses  beating  like  muffled  drums. 
For  what  he  had  been  waiting  for  had  come:  the  clear 
sight.  In  all  its  details,  even  to  the  changing  hghts  that 
flickered  hour  by  hour  through  the  windows  as  the  sun 
moved  on  its  course,  came  the  picture  of  the  Gothic  hall 
that  a  city  company  wanted  built.  From  point  to  point  he 
switched  his  mind,  turning  it  Hke  a  searchlight  from  ex- 
terior to  interior,  from  comer  to  window,  from  roof  to  lin- 
tels.   Though  he  had  no  knowledge  of  it,  the  music  led  him 


292  A  Man  of  Genius 

on  till,  when  it  ceased,  the  electric  thrill  died  down  and  he 
went  out  of  the  church,  quickly  calculating  how  many  hours 
he  could  give  to  his  design  after  the  day's  work  at  other  men's 
plans  was  over.  For  the  date  at  which  the  competition 
would  close  was  not  far  off. 

With  a  shudder  he  remembered  the  piano-practising  girl 
next  door,  for  on  such  small  wheels  do  great  wheels  turn 
that  a  carpenter's  hammer  here  below  can  shatter  the 
clearest  dream,  the  most  solemn  vision,  as  long  as  it  is 
only  enshrined  in  nerve  fibre  and  grey  matter.  But  in  an 
hour  Ambrose  had  sought  fresh  rooms,  with  nothing  more 
nerve-shattering  to  be  heard  than  the  drip  of  a  water-tap  and 
the  wails  of  the  cats. 

He  was  voted  a  morose  fellow  by  his  colleagues  at  the  office; 
but  they  would  have  changed  their  minds  had  they  heard 
the  song  of  the  fiddle  late  at  night,  when  Ambrose  played 
out  the  gratified  vanity  that  capered  in  his  heart  at  the 
sight  of  his  brain-child  on  paper,  whilst,  as  he  wandered 
from  Cicely  Sweet  to  Arscott  of  Tetcott,  the  scheme  of 
to-morrow's  work  came  to  his  mind. 

Then,  at  last,  from  his  bedroom  window  he  would  glance 
at  Orion's  Belt,  for  that  always  carried  him  to  Beckland  and 
the  life  waiting  at  the  gates.  But  Thyrza  wrote  gaily,  and 
in  the  shining  of  the  next  spring's  sun-rays  there  would  be 
two  creations — the  child  of  brain  and  the  child  of  body — 
called  out  of  nothingness  by  the  will  of  the  universe  that 
masquerades  as  man's  will  in  the  Mystery  Play  called  life. 
Yet  it  was  a  good  time  for  both  husband  and  wife,  this 
period  of  struggle  and  loneliness. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
THE  WINGS  OF  THE  WIND 

AT  last  there  came  at  Beckland  what  Damans  always 
called  the  day  of  the  great  terror.  About  midday, 
across  the  clear  December  sky,  there  began  to  gather  a 
strange  darkness  that  grew,  moment  by  moment,  blacker 
and  more  pitchy,  till  the  numbness  of  cold  that  came  with 
it  seemed  almost  due  to  mere  absence  of  light.  Bonie  on 
a  north-wester,  that  soon  shifted  to  north-east,  tiny  particles 
of  ice,  congeahng  too  rapidly  to  form  snowflakes,  filled  all 
the  lower  currents  of  air.  Every  ivy  leaf  on  walls  that 
faced  the  wind  soon  acquired  a  solid  sheath  of  ice,  and  the 
window-panes  between  shone  iridescent  and  opaque  with 
the  same  steel  covering.  All  through  the  day  the  wind  was 
gathering  slowly  in  speed,  till  it  had  reached  the  hurricane 
power  that  is  usually  only  encountered  in  Atlantic  storms. 

In  the  pitch  blackness  of  early  evening  ]Mrs.  Velly  heard 
a  hurried  knocking  at  her  door.  Opening  it  quickly,  she 
found  Damaris  panting  on  the  doorstep,  after  her  struggle 
with  the  wind  that  was  now  flying  past  at  a  rate  very  near 
eighty  miles  an  hour.  The  three  houses  were  shuttered 
close  against  the  violent  raging  that  shrieked  overhead,  yet 
long,  silted  columns  of  ice  had  filtered  through  the  eyelet 
holes  of  shutters  and  between  the  door-hinges.  In  the  roar 
of  the  wind  a  shout  a  foot  or  two  away  was  quite  inaudible, 
and  at  first  Mrs.  Velly  was  barely  able  to  distinguish  the 
words  that  seemed  torn  away  from  Damaris's  Hps.  Quickly, 
however,  she  pulled  her  visitor  into  the  cottage  and  shut 
the  door. 

093 


294  A  Man  of  Genius 

"There's  trouble,"  she  exclaimed.  "I've  felt  it  coming 
all  this  wisht  day.  Now,  out  with  it.  There's  never  any  use 
m  waiting." 

"It's  all  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  noticed  before  I 
want  you  to  come  to  Thyrza  at  once." 

''Ah!"  breathed  the  old  woman,  -I  reckoned  the  storm 
would  rouse  the  blood  of  her.  That  chimney  will  be  down 
before  the  morning,"  she  said,  with  a  glance  at  the  fire  that 
was  sendmg  great  puffs  of  smoke  across  the  room  She 
was  merely  talking  to  allow  Damaris's  tremWing  hps  to 
stiffen.  ^ 

"I  must  get  to  Dr.  Dayman,  somehow,"  said  Damaris 
Oh,  why  didn't  I  notice  before?    I  almost  think  she's 
dying." 

/'Now,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  planting  firm  hands  on  the 
girl's  shoulders,  ''you  mustn't  lose  your  nerve  " 
''But  she's  so  ill." 

"Ay,  I'll  warn  she  is.  What  I've  got  to  say  is  this:  we've 
got  a  pretty  stiff  fight  before  us,  you  and  me.  Now  when 
you're  m  a  tight  place  'tis  no  mortal  use  saying,  'Oh  what 
I've  got  to  bear,'  or,  'Oh,  will  what  I  do  be  any  good>' 
All  you've  got  to  say  is,  'What's  the  next  thing ?'-and  do 


It. 


That  "you  and  me"  was  unspeakably  comforting  to 
poor,  inexperienced  Damaris.  All  this  time  Mrs.  Velly  had 
been  extinguishing  the  fire  and  throwing  together  a  bundle 
of  clothes. 

"Now  for  it,"  she  said,  opening  the  door. 
Outside  a  strange  thing  waited.  For  over  the  drifted 
snow  that  vaguely  covered  the  famihar  hedges  there  reigned 
utter  stillness.  It  was  so  calm  that  the  match  Mrs.  Velly 
lit  to  show  the  step  just  burnt  down  in  her  hand  instead 
of  being  blown  out.  In  the  dim  light  the  duck  pond  shone 
with  the  black  greyness  of  ice  that  is  edged  with  snow. 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  295 

"Here,  wait  a  bit,"  said  Mrs.  Veily,  pausing  to  hammer 
at  Josh  Grylls'  cottage;  *'he'd  best  come  and  sit  with  your 
father.  An^'^vay,  too,  he  can  fetch  and  cany,  and  'twill  he 
safer  for  'en  in  the  farm  than  here,  for  'tis  a  crazy  sort  of  a 
roof  he's  got." 

She  felt  like  the  captain  of  a  beleaguered  garrison  on  the 
eve  of  the  siege. 

*'The  storm  seems  to  have  died  down,"  said  Damaris 
joyfully. 

''My  God!"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  ''don't  you  know  what  this 
lull  means?  'Tis  just  that  we'm  in  the  very  heart  of  it. 
'Twill  be  upon  us  again  worse  than  ever,  afore  long." 

The  calm,  indeed,  lasted  a  matter  of  thirteen  minutes, 
but  before  the  three  were  housed  in  the  farm  a  howling  gust 
had  caught  them  that  tore  at  the  very  foundations  of  the 
house.  It  took  the  combined  strength  of  the  three  to  force 
the  door  close,  and  when  at  last  this  was  accomplished,  the 
staircase  opposite  was  covered  with  a  sheet  of  slippery-  ice. 

"You'll  never  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Velly.  "You'll  never 
get  to  the  doctor  to-night." 

The  two  stood  in  the  dark  passage  listening  to  the  gusts 
that  beat  against  the  walls. 

"  Go  upstairs  and  see,"  said  Damaris,  quietly  twisting  her 
shawl  more  firmly  round  her  head. 

She  stood  waiting  for  a  few  minutes,  watched  by  the  two 
old  men  from  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  till  at  last  Mrs.  Velly 
appeared  at  the  top  of  the  staircase,  holding  high  a  candle- 
stick that  guttered  in  the  draught. 

"Some  one  must  go,"  she  said  curtly. 

"I  knew  it,"  answered  Damaris.  "Only  I  can  go.  You 
must  stay  with  her.  No,  no,"  she  protested,  as  the  old  men 
interposed;  "it's  out  of  the  question  for  either  of  you  to 
go." 

She  was  sick  with  a  dull  terror  of  the  cruelty  of  nature 


*  1 


296  A  Man  of  Genius 

that  tore  at  the  window-panes  and  racked  the  girl  upstairs; 
but  once  outside  the  door,  her  strength  rose  to  the  need. 
Inch  by  inch  she  fought  her  way  to  the  garden  gate,  there 
to  cling  to  the  bars  for  minutes  that  seemed  hours. 

The  road  was  clean-swept  in  spots  by  the  force  of  the 
gale,  though  with  drifts  against  the  hedges  that  by  morning 
were  six  and  seven  feet  deep.  The  danger,  however,  came 
neither  from  drifts  nor  cold,  but  from  suffocation  by  the 
ice  particles  that  tore  against  her,  cutting  the  skin  with 
myriads  of  steel  points.  Again  and  again,  too,  she  had  to 
force  her  way  on  hands  and  knees,  always  with  the  hideous 
consciousness  that  it  was  her  own  ignorance  that  was  risk- 
ing two  lives. 

Left  alone  in  the  kitchen  the  two  old  men  sat  close  to 
the  fire,  hstening  to  the  wild  voices  outside  that  mercifully 
drowned  all  sounds  from  the  room  overhead.  Mr.  Westaway 
groaned  once,  laying  his  head  on  his  hand,  as  he  pictured 
his  daughter's  journey  and  reahsed  his  own  helplessness. 
Old  Grylls  tried  to  comfort  him. 

''I  tell  'ee  what  'tis,  maister,"  he  said;  ''when  us  put 
seed  to  ground,  us  ha'  got  to  trusten,  and  when  us  put 
corpse  to  clay,  us  ha'  got  to  trusten.  There's  nort  else  for 
it." 

"And  in  what,  Grylls,  especially  when  we  put  corpse  to 
clay,  as  you  call  it?" 

Even  in  the  tension  of  this  night  a  little  excursion  into 
the  abstract  was  a  relief  to  Mr.  Westaway.  Josh  Grylls 
answered  indirectly — 

"This  is  the  way  I  look  at  it  myself,"  he  said.  "Us 
shouldn't  have  summer  if  so  be  spring  didn't  come  first, 
nor  winter  without  the  fall.  Same  with  life  and  death. 
Us  have  come  out  of  darkness  into  Hght  once,  and  'tis  true 
that  us  go  again  into  darkness.  Ay,  but  why  shouldn't 
there  be  a  light  t'other  side  of  that  darkness?     For  'tis 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  297 

allays  that  way;  night  and  day,  and  night  and  day,  light 
out  of  the  darkness  allays.  And  as  us  ha'  seen  light  once, 
why  not  twice?  Can  'ee  go  one  better  than  that,  sir?" 

"I  can't  even  go  as  far  as  that,  Giylls,"  said  Mr.  Westa- 
way  sadly. 

*'Hark  to  the  wind!"  said  Josh,  holding  up  his  hand. 

The  forces  of  death  and  destruction  raged  all  round  them, 
seeking  entrance  by  any  cranny.  The  farm  seemed  set  in 
the  midst  of  a  sea  of  breakers,  and  great  guns  hke  battering 
rams  roared  against  windows  and  doors.  Every  piece  of 
timber  in  the  structure  was  straining,  every  slate  in  the  roof 
rattling.  As  each  blast  died  away  momentarily,  they  heard 
strange  whistling  sounds  Hke  death  signals  to  an  unseen 
sharpshooter.  In  a  moment  of  comparative  quiet,  a  rhyth- 
mic moaning  came  from  overhead,  broken  only  by  Mrs. 
Velly's  voice,  or  by  the  noise  of  coal  being  piled  on  the  bed- 
room grate. 

For  everywhere,  even  in  the  zone  of  warmth  before  the 
fire,  the  cold  crept  death-like  and  numbing,  as  the  floor 
coverings  lifted  under  an  icy  draught  that  nothing  could 
keep  out,  and  the  ice-shreds  silted  through  the  cracks. 

''The  drifts  must  be  as  high  as  the  hedges  by  now,"  said 
Mr.   Westaway. 

''There's  no  way  out  of  it,  but  to  go  straight  on  and  to 
trusten,"  said  Gr>'lls;  "if  'tis  laid  down  for  missie  to  get  to 
Hartland,  why,  she'll  get  there,  and  if  not,  not.  And  fretting 
your  gizzard  won't  make  a  pin's  point  of  difference  to  the 
drifts,  nor  yet  to  the  wind.  And  of  that  you  may  take  your 
davy." 

Mrs.  Velly  came  bustling  into  the  room  for  a  second, 
pulling  forward  the  great  kettle  and  setting  up  a  chair 
covered  with  flannels  before  the  fire. 

"See  that  they  don't  bum,"  she  snapped. 

"How  is  she?"  asked  Mr.  Westaway. 


298  A  Man  of  Genius 

''Mortal  bad.  'Tis  the  storm  that  racks  her  worse  thau 
nature  itself.  She's  always  been  Hke  it  when  the  sea's  high, 
and  what  'tis  like  to-night  only  God  knows.  'Tis  pretty" 
nigh  tearing  the  Hfe  out  of  her,  an3rway,  with  each  wind 
that  comes.  My  Lord,  will  any  help  ever  win  through  to; 
us  to-night?     The  storm's  bringing  the  cheeld,  but — "       ' 

The  gaunt  woman's  face  was  grey. 

"'Tisn't  nature,"  she  said,  as  she  disappeared  upstairs,; 
her  loose  slippers  going  flop,  flop,  all  the  way  up  the  stairs. ; 

''She's  been  such  a  merry  Httle  soul  all  through  the:; 
summer,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  patting  Danny  softly,  "and. 
the  child  would  have  been  such  a  joy  to  her.  Just  an^ 
hour's  pleasure  and  then — that.  You're  an  old  man,* 
an  old  wise  man,  perhaps  I  might  say.  What  do  you  make' 
of  that  now?"     He  pointed  sorrowfully  upstairs. 

"'Tis  a  great  big  circle,  maister,"  said  old  Grylls,  holding 
out  his  arms  with  clasped  hands;  "round  and  round  it 
goes,  and  when  joy's  greatest  it  comes  nigh  to  agony,  and  ) 
when  the  agony's  deathly,  I  believe  there's  a  sort  of  joy  in  ij 
it.  'Tis  all  a  circle  where  joy  and  pain  run  round  and  \ 
round,  and  one  ends  where  t'other  begins.  'Tis  like  an  \ 
endless  chain."  j 

Slowly  the  hour  passed,  till  at  last  Mr.  Westaway  started  j 
from  his  chair.  \ 

"Hark!"  he  said.  "What's  that?"  ] 

Above  the  storm  there  were  surely  voices,  the  blessed  ; 
voices  that  bring  help.  Danny's  hair  rose  on  his  neck.  He  i 
flew  to  the  door  and  began  snuffing  under  it  with  joyful  I 
whines. 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  Danny;  get  out  of  the  way,  you  | 
fool,"  said  old  Grylls,  struggHng  with  the  fastenings  of  the  | 
door.  When  at  last  he  got  it  open  a  wall  of  whirhng  ice  i 
seemed  to  enter  bodily  with  Dr.  Dayman  and  Damaris.      \ 

"The  sycamores  are  down,"  said  she,  sUding  into  the  I 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  299 

firelight,  followed  by  the  huge  white  figure  of  the  doctor. 
They  were  both  dripping  into  pools  of  white  slush. 

"Oh,  how  is  she?"  cried  Damaris,  hastily  starting  t(? 
Strip  Dr.  Dayman  of  his  layer  of  coats,  as  he  fumbled 
numbly  at  a  brandy-flask.  ''Quick,"  she  said,  almost 
shaking  him,  "go  upstairs  at  once.    Don't  waste  a  second." 

After  a  gulp  of  brandy,  the  doctor  grunted.  It  was  the 
first  sound  he  had  uttered  since  he  entered  the  room.  His 
great  face  flamed  red  and  blue  as  the  girl  hovered  round 
him,  for  he  represented  to  her  that  divine  thing  called  help. 
In  the  terror  of  cold  and  fear,  as  he  had  dragged  Damaris 
with  him,  she  almost  prayed  to  the  power  of  body  and  skill 
of  knowledge  that  he  carried  with  him. 

"Steady,"  he  said,  "steady,"  as,  leaning  his  arm  on 
Grj'Us'  Shoulder,  he  kicked  off  his  huge  boots.  "Ha!" 
he  said,  "that's  better." 

To  Damaris  there  w^as  something  cruel  in  the  deliberation 
with  which  he  pulled  out  the  toes  of  his  blue  knitted  socks 
to  see  if  they  were  damp,  and  stretched  his  toes  like  a 
gigantic  baby.  Yet  there  was  intense  comfort,  as  she  sank 
on  the  floor  in  front  of  the  fire,  in  the  sound  of  the  stairs  as 
they  creaked  under  his  weight. 

"Child,"  said  Mr.  Westaway,  "you're  wet  to  the  skin. 
Go  up  and  change,  and  then  come  down  to  some  hot  milk. 
See,  we'U  get  it  ready  for  you." 

Old  Gr)'lls'  trembHng  hands  were  already  busied  with  a 
small  saucepan  he  had  discovered. 

"Oh,"  cried  Damaris,  "I  crept  there  on  my  hands  and 
knees.  What  a  fool  I've  been,  but  the  storm  took  me  by 
surprise." 

"It  needn't  have,  missie,"  said  Josh,  holding  the  sauce- 
pan over  the  fire.  "I've  tasted  snow  for  days,  and  I've 
heard  the  tree  branches  snapping  night  after  night." 

"Then  you   might   have  warned   me,"   said    Damaris, 


300  A  Man  of  Genius 

dragging  herself  stiffly  towards  the  door.    "What's  the  use 
of  knowing  things  if  you  keep  them  to  yourself?" 

"And  how  was  I  to  know  'twould  bring  a  cry-out  to  Mrs. 
Velly?  But  there,  you  can't  teach  a  woman  reason,  no 
more  than  you  can  teach  a  tiger  to  lap  milk." 

Tempers  were  getting  short  under  the  strain  of  the  night. 

"My  dear,"  interposed  Mr.  Westaway,  "did  you  think 
of  Ambrose?" 

"They'll  wire  in  the  morning,  if  there  are  any  wires 
standing  by  them.  But  anyway,  they  think  the  rails  will  be 
blocked  by  drifts  for  days.  Oh,  why  didn't  I  foresee  this?" 
she  wailed  again.  "Father,"  she  whispered,  coming  back 
to  the  fire,  "it  seems  quiet  above.  What  does  it  mean? 
We  haven't  killed  her  between  us,  have  we?" 

"My  dear,  everything  that  mortal  could  do,  you  have 
done." 

But  she  was  gone,  slipping  quietly  upstairs  to  listen  out- 
side the  room. 

Standing  there  in  the  chill  draught,  it  seemed  that  the 
future  came  behind  her,  touching  her  with  stealthy  fingers. 
Above  the  triangular  staircase  window  there  was  a  drift  of 
snow  through  the  crumbling  wall,  and,  on  the  ledge,  the 
cactus  plant  swayed  in  the  wind.  She  stood  with  her  hand 
on  the  handle  of  the  door,  afraid  to  move  lest  the  balls  of 
ice  on  her  boot-heels  should  cause  her  to  slip  and  make  a 
noise. 

It  could  not  be  death,  for  there  came  a  muttered  sentence 
from  Dr.  Dayman  and  the  quick  movements  of  a  woman's 
footsteps  across  the  room.  Then  Damaris  sank  on  the 
floor  of  the  landing,  and  to  her  exhausted  senses  it  seemed 
that  again  she  was  fighting  the  blind  wall  of  whirring  white- 
ness. She  was  dumbly  moving  her  lips  by  now,  for  she 
could  feel  Ambrose's  reproachful  look  at  her  for  having 
failed  in  her  trust. 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  301 

Yet,  what  did  Ambrose  matter?  The  sex  hatred  was 
uppermost  now,  in  the  memory  of  all  the  past  months  when 
the  child  had  been  left  alone  to  face  this  night.  All  these 
months  she  had  waited  for  the  joy  that  perhaps  would  never 
be.  It  was  not  fair,  protested  Damaris  to  the  forces  of  hfe; 
Thyrza  had  not  received  the  wages  of  her  trust. 

At  last,  dumbly  and  prayerlessly,  Damaris  became  aware 
of  cries,  ver}'  far  off,  ver^'  thin  and  strange,  like  a  tiny  gnat 
whistling  in  the  sun-steeped  air.  All  the  glory  of  the  past 
summer,  the  peace  of  golden  heat,  seemed  in  the  sound,  the 
far-off  sound  that  meant  hfe.  Then  there  was  a  long  wait, 
words  and 


She  drew  breath  sharply.  For  arnong  the  noises  of  this 
planet  there  was  a  new  one,  the  wail  with  which  hfe  begins. 
Then  Damaris  crept  away  to  her  own  room. 

In  the  grey  morning  light  she  found  Mrs.  Velly  standing 
by  her  bed  with  a  steaming  cup  of  tea.  The  woman's  face 
was  dr}'  and  inexpressibly  worn.    "Drink  this,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  she'll  hve,  she'll  live.  'Tis  a  great  boy.  Did  'ee 
send  to  Ambrose  or  not  ?  You've  borne  more  for'n  than  you 
ought  to  have  been  asked  to  bear.  God  forgive  me  for 
letting  it  be  so!" 

"Yes;  I  sent  urgent  word.  But  he'll  maybe  not  get  here 
for  nobody  knows  how  long." 

"He's  wanted  here  badly,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  fidgeting 
with  the  tea-cup  she  had  placed  on  the  dressing  table. 
"Now,  you'll  stay  in  bed  to-day,  my  dear,  and  get  over  last 
night." 

"Stay  in  bed,  Mrs.  Velly?"  laughed  Damaris.  "Oh!" 
she  cried  as  she  tried  to  move. 

"Yes;  you'll  feel  it  worse  than  you  thought  for.  You'll 
stay  where  you  be,  won't  you,  my  dear?  The  doctor's 
staying  till  midday,  and  he  shall  give  'ee  something  against 
a  chill." 


302  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Why,  you  can't  do  it  all!  Whatever  can  you  think  of 
me,  to  imagine  I'm  going  to  leave  you  to  cope  with  a  mother 
and  a  baby,  and  a  house  and  a  father?  Oh,  I  do  want 
to  see  the  baby.    Is  he  lovely  and  big  and  strong?" 

"Ay,  he's  a  lusty  chap,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  uneasily. 

"Mrs.  Velly,  what  is  it?"  asked  Damaris,  coming  up  to 
the  old  woman.    "You've  been  a  tower  of  help  in  trouble." 

"Eh,  dear,  and  'tis  my  own  lad's  lad." 

"Mrs.  Velly,  what  is  it?"  repeated  Damaris. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  said,  beginning  to  wring  her  hands, 
"I  don't  know  how  to  tell  'ee,  and  there's  the  doctor  fuming 
below.    He'll  be  up  in  two  minutes,  if  I  don't  mind." 

"See,"  she  continued,  putting  her  arm  round  the  girl  and 
leading  her  back  to  bed,  "my  dear,  'twas  life  and  death 
that  come  last  night." 

"Thyrza?"  whispered  Damaris. 

"No,  no;  Thyrza  will  do  now.  She's  sleeping  quietly. 
Look,  my  dear,  look  at  the  light,"  she  said,  puUing  up  the 
blind  and  pointing  to  the  outer  world.  Then  she  opened 
the  shutters  and  flung  up  the  window  till  the  room  was 
flooded  with  the  sunshine  that  sparkled  from  a  sea  of  splen- 
dour. Treeless  and  measureless  all  the  earth  seemed 
now,  for  the  hand  of  nature  had  blotted  out  the  traces  of 
man's  boundaries.  A  soft  wind,  pure  with  the  purity  of  a 
dream-heaven,  fluttered  Mrs.  Velly's  coarse  white  hair  and 
smarted  on  her  tear-rimmed  eyes. 

"Mrs.  Velly,  tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

"My  dear,  death  came  last  night.  He  must  have  gone 
soon  after  the  baby  came,  they  think." 

"My  father?" 

"Yes.  We  found  'en,  the  doctor  and  I,  sitting  with  his 
hand  leaning  on  the  book  he'd  been  reading.  I've  got  it 
npen  here.    His  hand  lay  on  it." 

It  was  a  dream  from  which  she  would  soon  awake.    It 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  303 

must  be  the  snow  sleej),  thought  Damaris,  which  she  had 
feared  last  night.  That  was  what  the  glare  on  her  eyeljalls 
meant. 

Mrs.  Velly  drew  from  under  her  apron  the  open  book  and 
laid  it  on  the  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"You'll  maybe  like  to  see  where  it  was  open,"  she  said. 

"Mrs.  Velly,  it  isn't  true,  is  it?" 

"My  dear  soul,  you'm  broad  awake,  and  sorrow's  broad 
awake,  too.  Look,  there's  the  sunlight.  The  storm's  done 
its  work.  Old  Gr)lls  left  'en  about  two  o'clock,  he  says, 
with  a  great  fire  blazing.  Then  the  doctor  thinks  he  must 
have  fallen  asleep.  And  the  creeping  cold  of  the  morn- 
ing struck  home.  He'd  a  weak  heart,  Dr.  Dayman  says, 
and  the  trouble  of  the  night  and  the  cold  touched  'en." 

With  the  details  came  to  Damaris  the  sense  that  there 
was  truth  in  the  words  she  seemed  to  be  hearing. 

"I  want  to  be  alone,"  she  said  at  last. 

Then  she  got  up  instantly  and  put  up  her  hair  in  a  knot. 
As  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  book  Mrs.  Velly  had 
laid  on  the  table.  It  was  the  Bible,  on  the  fly-leaf  of  which 
the  Westaway  births  and  deaths  wxre  recorded.  Keeping 
her  hand  on  the  open  page,  she  turned  back  to  the  place 
where  the  faded  ink  characters  were  traced.  She  saw  her 
own  name,  and  before  that  her  father's.  She  would  have 
to  write  the  day  of  his  death.  Was  it  yesterday  or 
to-day  ? 

At  that  she  realised.  "There  is  no  home  now,"  she 
sobbed,  "for  he  was  home  to  me.  This  house  is  nothing 
but  the  strangest  place."  Then  she  turned  to  the  pages  in 
Ecclesiastes  at  which  the  book  was  open — the  final  sum- 
ming up  of  human  wisdom,  of  the  flux  and  reflux  of  life. 
"One  generation  passcth   away,   and   another  generation 

Cometh:     but    the   earth    al)ideth    for   ever The   thing 

that  hath  been,  it  is  that  whi(  h  shall  be;   and  that  which  is 


304  A  Man  of  Genius 

done  is  that  which  shall  be  done:    and  there  is  no  new 
thing  under  the  sun." 

As  she  read,  a  kind  of  triumph  filled  her  heart.  For 
from  the  troubles  of  this  life,  at  any  rate,  he  was  safe. 
Death  passed,  the  gates  of  pain  seemed  closed. 

They  kept  the  death  from  Thyrza.  But  Damaris  refused 
to  see  the  girl  a  second  time;  she  only  realised  her  own 
loss  fully  as  she  watched  the  mother  lying  with  her  lips 
close  to  the  baby  head  in  its  swathing  flannels. 

''A  regular  little  Velly,"  said  the  grandmother,  stretching 
out  the  wonderful  bones  of  the  tiny  hand. 

With  a  shiver  Damaris  turned  away,  and  a  perception  of 
the  truth  suddenly  struck  Mrs.  Velly. 

"Ah,"  she  said  under  her  breath,  "we'll  win  heaven  easy, 
we  women,  once  we're  the  t'other  side,  for  we  shall  have 
paid  the  devil  his  due  in  pain  this  side  of  the  river.  'Twill 
be  For  Men  only  this  way,  I'll  warn,  on  the  way  down  to 
the  pit.  Leastways,  Hwill  be  so,  if  there's  justice  anywhere, 
for  pay  they  don't,  the  men-folk  don't,  not  in  blood  and 
tears  as  we  do." 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  found  carrying  the  child  up 
the  rungs  of  a  step-ladder,  for  it  behoved  her  to  make  sure 
that  this  latest  scion  of  the  Velly  tree  had  his  rights  in  life, 
and  to  carry  an  infant  downstairs  for  the  first  time  is  to 
condemn  him  to  ill-luck.  So  Ambrose  II  went  up  the 
step-ladder,  wailing  miserably  at  his  weird  experiences, 
combined  with  the  pains  of  what  Mrs.  Velly  bibUcally 
termed  his  hungry  little  belly. 

When  the  wire  at  last  reached  Ambrose,  for  a  moment 
he  saw  nothing  but  the  colony  at  Beckland  in  the  land 
where  his  heart  lay.  For  somehow  it  seemed  news,  not  so 
much  of  Thyrza  and  the  babe,  as  of  the  homeland  for 
which  she  stood. 

Then  he  roused  himself  to  look  out  trains  and  interview 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  305 

his  Chief.  At  Bristol,  as  he  had  requested,  there  was  a 
wire  awaiting  him,  which  told  the  tidings  of  Mr.  Westaway's 
death. 

It  was  a  slow  journey  for  the  ''roughed"  horse  along  the 
road  that  skirts  the  coast  from  Bideford  to  Hartland,  and 
night  fell  long  before  he  could  catch  even  a  glimpse  of  the 
Promonton-  of  Hercules.  But  at  last,  out  of  the  gloom 
swung  the  lights  of  the  point,  first  red,  then  white,  and  in 
the  gleam  of  them  came  the  memory  of  those  first  days 
when  the  Star  of  the  West  began  to  shine  for  him. 

At  last  he  stood  between  the  two  heaps  of  piled-up  snow 
outside  the  door  of  Beckland,  with  the  smoking  horse 
breathing  heavily  in  the  damp  air.  As  he  waited,  there 
came  from  within  a  child's  cry  and  a  woman's  voice  singing 
"Hush-a-bye,  baby." 

Strange  new  things  were  to  be  found  on  the  other  side  of 
the  closed  door. 

A  few  minutes  later  Thyrza  crept  into  his  arms  with  the 
thankful  sob  of  one  who  has  received  a  great  gift.  In  the 
curve  of  his  right  arm  she  made  him  hold  the  child  as  she 
lay  beside  him. 

"It's  yours  and  mine,"  she  whispered;  "God  gave  him 
to  us." 

It  was  her  creed;  for  this  is  what  life  teaches  women  like 
Thyrza.     "And  I  won  him  with  pain,"  she  added. 

After  the  funeral  Dr.  Dayman  came  back  with  Damaris 
to  Beckland.  He  watched  her  anxiously,  for  her  hands 
were  clasping  and  unclasping  tremulously. 

"Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked  abruptly. 
"Sit  down  here,  at  once,"  he  added,  pushing  forward  a 
chair. 

"I  can't  stay  here  any  longer,"  she  said.  "I  have  no 
share  in  the  life  of  it  any  longer." 

"Damn  him  and  her  and  it!"  said  the  Doctor,  jerking 
20 


306  A  Man  of  Genius 

his  thumb  upstairs  towards  Thyrza's  room,  in  a  litany  of 
objurgation. 

Damaris  laughed  a  laugh  that  ended  in  a  sob. 

"Stop  that!"  said  Dr.  Dayman  sternly. 

"And  join  you  in  your  prayer?"  she  said,  crumbling  a 
biscuit  for  Danny;  "it's  like  the  Commination  Service." 

"Get  out  of  the  way,  dog,"  roared  the  Doctor.  "I  can't 
bear  any  more  of  this;  what  with  worrying  about  you  I 
haven't  had  a  rehshable  glass  of  wine  or  a  comfortable 
snoose  for  a  week.  Now,  look  here,  you're  going  to  have 
a  home  with  me.  I've  no  chick  nor  cheeld,  and  you  know 
I  worship  the  ground  you  tread  on.  You  shan't  stay  here 
another  minute  to  have  your  loneliness  thrust  at  you.  Come 
here,"  he  said,  roughly  pulling  her  up  to  his  knees  as  though 
she  were  a  child;  "what  you  all  see  in  that  Velly  I'm 
beggared  if  I  know.  Get  down,  dog."  For  Danny,  con- 
sidering his  intentions  sinister,  was  leaping  up  anxiously. 
"You'll  come,"  he  asked;  "come  home  with  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered. 

"But  not  to-night,"  he  said;  "you're  not  fit  for  it.  Do 
you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do?  Carry  you  over  to  old 
Mother  Velly,  plump  you  into  her  bed  and  make  you  sleep 
there.     She's  a  comfortable  soul,  Velly  though  she  be." 

"But  surely  I  can  walk,"  said  Damaris. 

"No,  you  can't.  By  heavens,  what  you  want  now  is 
somebody  to  pad  the  stones  for  you,  and  keep  the  winds  of 
heaven  from  blowing  too  roughly  on  you." 

Gathering  her  up  he  walked  thus  out  of  the  house,  to 
the  amazement  of  Danny,  the  pigeons  and  the  four  ducks 
on  the  pond. 

"Why  did  you  never  marry.  Dr.  Dayman?"  asked 
Damaris,  lying  like  a  lamb  in  the  crook  of  a  shepherd's 
arm. 

"Ccelebs  sum  et  semper  ero,  madam,"  he  cried. 


The  Wings  of  the  Wind  307 

"Here,"  he  shouted  to  Mrs.  Velly,  "come  clown  and 
hear  what  I've  got  tt)  say!" 

The  old  woman  ran  with  pattering  steps  down  the  steep 
breakneck  stairs. 

**Got  a  chair-bed  in  the  house?"  he  demanded. 

*'Yes,"  she  answered,  laughing  to  Damans,  who,  with 
Danny  climbing  on  her  laj),  lay  in  the  old  chair  before  the 
fire. 

''Well,  then,  you'll  sleep  in  it  to-night.  This  is  a  patient," 
he  said,  pointing  to  Damans,  ''who  has  to  be  cared  for  as 
if  she  were  melting  snow\" 

The  simile  w^as  suggested  by  the  slush  outside. 

"She's  to  sleep  in  your  bed.  Got  a  nice  patchwork  quilt 
and  a  feather  bed,  hasn't  it?" 

Mrs.  Velly  nodded. 

"Well,  she  wants  feather  beds  and  old  cosy  ways.  That's 
why  I  brought  her  to  you.  Put  her  to  bed  at  once,  and  give 
her  a  meal  every  two  hours  till  night,  when  she's  to  sleep 
for  ten  hours.  I'll  send  up  champagne  and  game  and  fowls 
as  soon  as  I  get  home,  and  I'll  drive  round  for  her  to-morrow 
afternoon.  You  go  and  pack  her  clothes,  for  she  is  not  to 
go  inside  that  house  again.  And  you  mind  what  I  say. 
She's  not  to  set  eyes  on  the  Blessed  Trinity  over  there  any 
more." 

So  Damans  passed  away  from  Beckland,  and  soon  Josh 
Gr)'lls  was  left  in  undivided  possession  of  his  hermitage; 
for,  shortly  after  the  child's  birth,  Mrs.  Velly  removed  to 
Bideford  to  take  up  her  abode  with  Thyrza  and  Ambrose. 
To  Gr}lls  it  was  as  though  a  whirlwind  of  life  had  eddied 
round  the  duck  pond  and  passed,  and  he  found  it  strangely 
"wisht"  to  see  no  column  of  smoke  from  either  house  when 
he  opened  his  door  of  a  morning. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
THE  MASTER  BUILDERS 

AMBROSE  VELLY  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  latch- 
key inserted  in  the  door  of  the  little  house  in  Bideford 
that  he  rented.  Then  he  suddenly  withdrew  it  and  walked 
away  up  the  street,  for  to-night  he  could  not  face  the  welcome 
that  awaited  him  within,  in  the  meagerly  proportioned 
sitting-room,  with  its  rickety  second-hand  furniture. 

His  work  in  London  had  long  since  been  finished,  and 
to-night  the  last  episode  of  that  hopeful  time  was  over,  in 
the  letter  which  he  had  just  received  announcing  the  award 
of  the  competition.  It  struck  him,  at  first,  as  comic  that 
the  judges  should  have  so  Httle  knowledge  of  beauty  as  to 
have  preferred  another's  design  to  his.  For  this  was  cer- 
tainly the  case;  he  had  indubitably  failed.  Now,  he  only 
knew  that  a  feverish  desire  to  begin  again  possessed  him, 
as  a  man  who  finds  himself  left  behind  in  a  race  may  put  on 
a  frantic  spurt  for  a  minute  or  two. 

Instead  of  going  home,  he  turned  away  to  get  a  supper 
of  stout  and  oysters  and  to  think.  In  an  hour's  time  he 
had  let  himself  into  the  office  again,  and  was  back  at  his 
desk  sketching  a  design  for  an  Oratory,  that  rose  before 
him  as  rapidly  as  a  magic  beanstalk.  Yet  it  was  feverish 
work  and  done  at  high  pressure,  so  that,  when  he  at  length 
went  home,  his  nerves  were  strained  to  breaking  point.  It 
was  something  like  a  toad  squatting  on  an  altar,  he  thought 
mockingly,  for  Ambrose  Velly  to  be  working  at  incensed 
aisles. 

308 


The  Master  Builders  309 

Somehow  there  was  a  root  of  bitterness  in  his  life  just 
now.  In  truth,  Thyrza  wore  badly;  not  her  love,  for  that 
was  unchangeable,  but  Th}Tza  herself.  For,  although  she 
could  bum  like  a  flame  at  the  touch  of  the  torch-bearing 
Eros,  she  never  succeeded  in  keeping  her  hearth-fire  bright. 
Energy  she  had  in  abundance,  but  unfortunately  energy  is 
not  a  force  that  can  be  turned  in  every  direction  like  a  hose 
pipe;  your  miUtant  churchman  would  probably  have 
browsed  away  his  life  in  bovine  placidity  if  fate  had  denied 
him  an  outlet  in  polemics.  He  would  never  have  devoted 
it  to  science  or  philanthropy,  as  people  imagine  who  talk 
of  wasted  energy-,  and  although  Thyrza  had  passion  enough 
and  devotion  enough  for  fifty  women,  she  wanted  the 
strength  of  brain  that  would  make  her  housewife  and  in- 
spirer.  The  child,  too,  was  often  aihng,  and  after  sleepless 
nights  and  toilsome  days  passed  in  one  deep  rut  of  domestic 
care,  Thyrza  found  it  hard  to  be  gay,  as  Ambrose  loved  to 
see  her,  and  although  IMrs.  Velly  spent  her  time  propping 
up  the  tottering  edifice  of  married  life,  she  was  in  herself 
too  fiercely  strenuous  to  diffuse  an  atmosphere  of  sunshine. 

To-night  Ambrose  had  scarcely  shut  the  door  behind 
him,  when  Thyrza  flew  to  his  side,  on  the  noiseless  ward 
slippers  that  she  wore  when  waiting  on  the  baby. 

*' Ambrose,"  she  cried,  "there's  such  trouble.  Baby's 
ver}',  very  ill  with  bronchitis.  Oh,  I  wanted  you  so,  and  you 
left  me  alone  to-night  of  all  nights." 

It  was  the  last  blow  of  a  day  that  seemed  interminable, 
and  Ambrose  stood  sullenly  wordless. 

**I  don't  believe  you  care,"  said  Thyrza.  They  were  the 
first  bitter  words  she  had  ever  uttered,  and  in  the  stillness 
of  the  firelit  room  they  sounded  with  an  awful  distinctness 
in  her  ears. 

He  cared  inexpressibly,  yet  in  the  weariness  of  the 
moment  the  httle  devilish  thoughts  that  come  to  sensitive 


3 1  o  A  Man  of  Genius 

people  told  him  what  a  pitiful  drag  a  delicate  child  would 
be  in  a  life  of  failure. 

"Ah,  forgive  me.  You  love  him,  I  know,"  said  Thyrza. 
Then  he  held  her  hand  for  a  moment  and  said,  "May  I  go 
up?" 

They  stood  by  the  child  together,  but  both  were  con- 
scious that  a  wall  of  separation  was  rising.  And  as  Am- 
brose turned  away  to  his  room,  Thyrza  heard  the  key 
turn  in  the  door.  He  wanted  to  get  a  night's  rest,  apart 
from  the  sorrow  they  ought  to  have  shared  together:  he 
wanted  her  shut  out. 

Mrs.  Velly  had  heard  the  sound  too. 

"A  man's  life  can't  be  a  woman's,  child,"  she  whispered, 
putting  her  hands  on  the  wife's  shoulders  as  they  stood  by 
the  fire  on  which  steamed  a  bronchitis  kettle. 

"It'll  never  be  the  same  again,  mother,"  said  Thyrza 
quietly.     "It's  all  changed  since  we've  lived  together." 

Yet  Ambrose  lay  staring  into  the  darkness  nearly  all 
night,  listening  to  every  sound  from  the  child's  room,  in  a 
sullen  disgust  with  himself  for  his  weakness  and  with  all 
that  had  been  and  all  that  was  to  come.  In  the  morning 
Mrs.  Velly  gave  him  his  breakfast,  and  he  heard  that  the 
baby  was  a  shade  better.     But  Thyrza  never  appeared. 

Yet  in  the  days  Ihat  followed  he  suffered  far  more  than 
she,  for  the  child's  hard,  tearing  cough  sounded  in  his  ears 
perpetually.  It  went  with  him  to  the  office  and  stayed  with 
him  all  day,  even  during  the  hours  when  at  night  he  set  his 
teeth  and  went  on  with  the  plan  of  the  Oratory.  For  nothing 
now,  not  all  the  devils  in  the  world  of  the  brain,  could  come 
between  him  and  that  design.  Yet  when  Thyrza  was  out 
for  the  hour's  airing  that  the  doctor  ordered,  he  would 
slip  home  whenever  he  could  get  away  and  walk  up  and 
down  with  the  little  tired  creature  resting  in  his  arms. 

Mrs.  Velly  tried  to  tell  her  daughter-in-law  of  this,  but 


The  Master  Builders  3  i  i 

she  was  stopped  by  the  look  of  dead  misery  on  the  j^irr.s 
face.  For  all  that  Thyrza  understood  in  life  was  slipping 
into  the  gulf,  her  husband's  love  and  sympathy  was  already 
gone  into  the  limbo  of  things  that  have  been,  and  her  child 
was  passing  through  her  loving  hands. 

At  last  the  night  came  when  Ambrose  stood  in  the  passage 
and  listened  to  the  strange  silence  that  filled  the  well-like 
tunnel  with  its  hideous  mottled  paper.  The  soaking  rain 
had  beaten  into  the  passage  through  the  sodden  mat,  and 
the  gas-stove  from  the  kitchen  reeked.  Yet  his  delicate 
artist  senses  noticed  none  of  these  things,  for  the  stillness 
could  mean  but  one  thing — that  the  child  who  came  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind  was  gone. 

He  went  upstairs  softly  in  his  stockinged  feet,  and 
although  he  had  sometimes  felt  that  Ambrose  II  was  a  weight 
in  the  race  that  is  to  the  swift,  now  he  remembered  nothing 
but  the  tiny  fingers  that  had  clasped  his  own  big 
hands. 

The  door  of  the  child's  room  was  ajar,  and  as  he  stood 
outside  he  could  see  the  mother  bending  over  the  baby's 
crib,  the  brightest  thing  in  the  house.  In  her  white  face, 
haggard  with  sorrow  and  fatigue,  in  the  rough  tangle  of 
hair  that  clung  to  her  neck,  there  was  no  lovehness,  nothing 
of  the  girl  who  had  danced  for  the  joy  of  life.  Yet  on  the 
strained  features  there  was  a  wonderful  light,  the  light  that 
a  woman's  face  wears  when  she  looks  in  the  face  of  life  or  of 
death,  the  two  poles  on  which  her  existence  turns.  Ambrose 
took  it  to  be  Thyrza's  farewell  to  the  dearest  thing  she  had 
ever  possessed.  But  one  thing,  at  any  rate,  he  knew  for 
certain,  that  the  lovehness  of  it  was  almost  divine,  since  no 
uncomeHness  of  body  could  touch  it. 

Thus  at  last  did  Ambrose  meet  that  ultimate  beauty  of 
the  spiritual  that  our  race  can  only  learn  through  sorrow, 
the  thing  that  gives  the  last  pathetic  touch  of  loveliness 


312  A  Man  of  Genius 

to  the  earth's  splendour  that  without  it  would  be  mere  ■ 
glitter. 

Then  Thyrza  looked  up  and,  seeing  her  husband,  came 
out.  Creeping  downstairs  again  he  followed  her  into  the 
sitting-room. 

''Is  he  gone?"  asked  Ambrose,  his  face  working,  so  that  > 
even  Thyrza  understood. 

At  the  sight  the  coldness  of  these  miserable  days  broke  : 
up,  and  she  cried — 

''No,  no;  it's  hfe.  He's  given  back  to  us.  The  turn 
came  this  afternoon,  and  he's  asleep  and  breathing  quietly." 

She  could  say  no  more,  for  Ambrose  had  caught  her  to 
him,  in  a  renewal  of  the  love  that  springs  from  trial. 

"And,"  said  Thyrza,  "I  hardened  my  heart  against  'ee, 
when  night  after  night,  though  he  seemed  dying,  you'd  go 
off.  Oh,  Ambrose,  and  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for  our 
little  son." 

They  heard  Mrs.  Velly  steahng  upstairs  to  the  child,  and 
then  Thyrza  got  up  quickly  and  shut  the  door,  lest  thej 
sound  of  their  voices  should  be  heard  in  the  quiet  room] 
upstairs. 

"I  couldn't  watch  the  Httle  one  go,"  said  Ambrose.  "I 
couldn't  stay  in  the  house.  And,  my  dear,  don't  you  know 
what  I've  been  doing  all  these  terrible  nights?" 

"No,  Ambrose,  no.  I  know  nothing  but  his  pain,  his 
struggle  for  Hfe." 

"Working  at  that,"  said  Ambrose,  pointing  to  the  rolls 
of  designs  he  had  laid  on  the  table.  "It  must  go  by  to- 
morrow's post,  and  even  now  it's  got  hours  of  work  on  it." 

"Ambrose,"  she  said  suddenly,  "if  baby  were  dead 
to-night,  should  you  finish  it?" 

She  was  in  the  mood  when  a  woman  drives  herself  on 
the  edge  of  truth's  bayonet.  But  he  would  not  have  it  so, 
for  laughing,  he  cried,  "No,  no;  you're  not  bom  for  tragedy, 


The  Master  Builders  3  i  3 

little  Thyrza.    If  it  wins,  all  our  days  of  stmgglc  are  over." 

But  she  understood,  and  for  a  moment  hated  the  work 
that  was  more  a  part  of  him  than  the  child  his  love  had 
given  her. 

"I  try  to  understand,"  she  whispered,  ''but  'tis  all  outside 
me  still." 

Yet  they  held  each  other  silently,  in  the  memory  of  the 
great  hours  that  had  been  for  them.  And  a  great  thankful- 
ness filled  the  ugly  little  room,  such  thankfulness  as  has 
filled,  thank  God,  many  an  ugly  little  room  before  with 
the  benediction  of  human  patience. 

''Come,"  said  Thyrza  at  last,  "you've  work  to  do.  You 
must  have  supper  before  you  begin.  But,  oh,  my  dear,  how 
woefully  tired  you  are.  Yet  you  can  work  with  a  good 
heart  now." 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  smiling,  "that  to-night  I  saw 
the  most  beautiful  thing  I've  ever  seen  in  my  life?  It  was 
your  face  bending  over  the  child,  and  I  thought — it  was 
good-bye." 

"It  was  only  good-bye  to  my  hardness  and  blindness, 
dear  heart,"  she  whispered. 

Then  Thyrza  did  a  hard  thing,  for  she  went  upstairs  to 
fetch  Mrs.  Velly  to  make  the  coffee  that  was  to  keep 
Ambrose  awake  till  the  work  was  finished.  Yet  she  longed  to 
do  everything  for  "her  man"  to-night,  in  the  sweet  renewal 
of  love.  But  Mrs.  Velly  could  make  it  much  better,  and  he 
must  have  the  best  of  ever)'thing  now. 

Afterwards,  through  the  hours  of  the  night,  Thyrza 
watched  in  the  room  above,  while  Ambrose  bent  over  his 
plans  in  the  sitting-room.  He  had  often  jested  at  things 
that  men  call  noble,  yet  there  was  no  unseemhness  to-night 
in  his  absorption  in  this  work,  for  its  foundations  had  been 
laid  in  honest  struggle  and  its  pillars  raised  to  the  music 
of  pain.    And  these  things  are  realities. 


314  A  Man  of  Genius 

The  package  went  by  the  morning  mail,  and  Thyrza,; 
stealing  down  from  the  child  soon  after,  found  her  husband ! 
asleep  on  the  old  draped  couch.  At  the  sight  she  posted! 
off  to  the  office  and  asked  to  see  the  senior  partner.  Mr..| 
Trevithick  rose  at  her  entrance  and  put  her  quickly  into  his'^ 
own  chair,  for  he  imagined  that  she  had  come  to  contradictJ 
the  good  news  of  yesterday.  | 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  seeing  his  alarm,  "the  boy's  all! 
right.  But  it's  Ambrose.  He's  been  working  at  his  design  i 
all  night  and  now  he's  asleep.  So  I  came  to  tell  you  what] 
had  happened  to  him." 

Trevithick  laughed. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "did  you  think  I  should  birch  him^ 
for  miching?    When  he  wakes,  tell  him  I'll  never  let  him 
inside  this  office  again  if  he  comes  here  to-day.     But  II 
didn't   think   he'd   get  the  thing  off  in  time."     Then  he^j 
added  slowly,  "It's  a  good  piece  of  work,  too."  1 

Thyrza  nodded  wisely,  but  her  heart  leapt,  for  Mr.  i 
Trevithick  seldom  saw  a  fine  thing  anywhere.  ! 

"And  now,"  said  he  in  business-like  tones,  "tell  mej 
what  the  child  may  have.    Give  me  a  list,  my  dear."  J 

And  in  her  round,  childish  hand  Thyrza  wrote  a  list  of -j 
luxuries  for  the  baby.  For  through  her,  Mr.  Trevithick  1 
indulged  in  one  of  the  great  pleasures  of  his  life,  the! 
filling  of  Ambrose  Minor's  little  nursery  and  little  i 
stomach  with  good  things  from  all  the  comers  of  the< 
earth.  \ 

In  the  sunny  days  when  the  child  was  convalescent,  he< 
would  perch  on  the  senior  partner's  cushiony  shoulder  and , 
ride  up  and  down  the  path  by  the  south  wall  in  the  garden^ 
on  the  hill,  while  Mrs.  Trevithick  watched  the  pair  from'^ 
the  drawing-room  window,  not,  in  truth,  without  a  certain  \ 
regret,  for  a  woman's  heart  can  beat  inside  very  tight] 
corsets  indeed.  d 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  JUDGI\n:NT  OF  PARIS 

MRS.  VELLY'S  first  impression  was  that  she  had 
been  aroused  from  her  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the 
night.  Yet  on  striking  a  match  she  found  that  it  was  only 
a  few  minutes  to  eleven.  Then,  as  she  heard  the  murmur 
of  men's  voices  from  the  room  below,  she  was  suddenly 
wide  awake  and  alert,  as  if  at  the  call  of  some  unknown 
danger.  Opening  her  door  quietly,  she  leant  over  the 
stair-rail  to  listen.  From  the  front  bedroom  she  could  hear 
Th}Tza  hushing  the  whimpering  baby  in  a  tired,  throaty 
voice,  and  in  the  sitting-room  below  Ambrose  was  talking 
to  a  stranger. 

The  smell  of  whisky  that  came  up  the  narrow  staircase 
was  associated  with  so  much  that  was  terrible  in  Mrs. 
Velly's  life  that  at  first  she  felt  as  though  the  past  had 
risen  from  its  grave.  For  she  was  perfectly  certain  that 
she  had  heard  the  beating  of  the  wings  of  trouble  in  the 
air.  As  she  crept  down  the  stairs,  she  saw  a  thin  ray  of 
light  coming  from  under  the  closed  door,  through  whose 
ill-fitting  woodwork  she  could  catch  most  of  what  was  said. 

"  It'll  be  thousands  of  pounds  in  your  pocket  in  time," 
said  the  sharp,  rasping  voice  of  a  stranger,  "  and  now  that 
you're  in  charge  of  the  new  asylum  that  your  firm's  got 
in  hand,  you'll  have  a  free  hand  in  a  matter  like  this." 

Mrs.  Velly's  vague  intuition  of  peril  was  changed  now 
into  certainty,  tor  Am])rose  must  have  had  his  reasons  for 
keeping  quiet  about  the  fact  that  he  had  been  appointed 

3'S 


3 1 6  A  Man  of  Genius 

clerk  of  works  to  the  new  county  asylum,  one  of  the  largest 
undertakings  that  Trevithick  and  Jerman  had  ever  handled. 
She  held  her  breath  lest  she  should  lose  a  word  of  what  j 
was  said.  j 

"Ten  per  cent,"  said  Ambrose.  | 

"On  every  order  that  you  get  for  our  firm,  and  it's  as  I 
good  as  any  stuff  our  rivals  can  offer  you."  j 

"  Yet  you're  trying  to  square  me,"  sneered  Ambrose. 

The  man  was  silent,  but  Mrs.  Velly  saw  him  shrug  his  ! 
shoulders  as  clearly  as  though  no  door  had  intervened.  \ 

"You  can  make  yourself  a  rich  man  by  the  stroke  of  a  j 
pen.  That  is,  provided  you  don't  put  your  head  out  of  J 
window  to  say  you're  not  at  home  to  good  luck  when  it  j 
comes."  I 

"  I  suppose  you  know  it's  a  job  that  would  strike  me  off  j 
the  register  as  an  architect?"  3 

"If  it  got  about,  you  mean.  But  that's  not  on  the  ) 
cards  at  all.  And  anyhow,  I  shall  give  you  a  call  again  ] 
shortly  in  a  week  or  two."  -j 

The  bird  was  limed,  said  the  man  to  himself,  as  he  \ 
swung  himself  out  of  the  house;  Mrs.  Velly  understood  ; 
that  perfectly.  Neither  of  the  men  noticed  her  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  stairs,  for  the  hall  light  had  been  extinguished. 
Closing  the  front  door  Ambrose  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  Mrs.  Velly  heard  his  chair  creak  under  his 
weight  as  he  sat  down.  As  she  softly  pushed  open  the 
unlatched  door  and  entered,  he  started  to  his  feet. 

"Mother!"  he  exclaimed.     "What  on  earth's  the  mean- 
ing of  this?" 

"  Speak  low,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  "  for  Thyrza's  awake,  and 
there's  no  need  for  her  to  know." 

"For  her  to  know  what?"  he  asked  angrily. 

"I  heard  what  that  man  said,  heard  everything,"  said 
Mrs.  Velly. 


The  Judgment  of  Paris  317 

"Well?"  asked  Ambrose  sullenly. 

"Do  you  know,"  asked  Mrs.  Velly  fiercely,  "what  it 
means  to  a  mother  when  she  finds  that  her  child  is  not  as 
God  made  her,  that  her  girl-child  she  bore  is  no  maid?" 

"I  really  don't  think  you  could  expect  me  to,"  he  an- 
swered, with  a  savage  laugh.  "  It's  out  of  my  province, 
you  see." 

"And  what  chastity  is  to  a  maid,  honour  is  to  a  man," 
said  Mrs.  Velly  quietly,  "and  the  worst  thing  I  heard 
to-night  was  your  silence.  What's  the  stuff  they're  trying 
to  sell  you?" 

"Shoddy,"  he  said  curtly,  turning  on  his  heel  to  light  his 
pipe.     He  was  intensely  angry  at  this  interference. 

"And  that's  what  you'll  let  Trevithick  put  into  the  build- 
ings he's  answerable  for!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Velly.  "Am- 
brose, you  must  be  mad.  He's  favoured  you  every  way. 
and  he  couldn't  be  kinder  to  Thyrza  and  the  child  if  they 
were  his  own  flesh  and  t)lood.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  them, 
I  don't  believe  you'd  be  where  you  are  now  in  the  firm." 

"Do  you  know  I'm  sinking  into  a  mere  drudge?"  he  said 
bitterly.  "  If  you  heard  all,  you  know  that  they've  given 
me  the  asylum  to  put  through;  the  sort  of  thing  a  journey- 
man builder  might  take  in  hand.  Do  you  think  Trevithick 
would  keep  me  at  work  like  that,  on  and  on  for  ever,  if  he 
didn't  count  me  an  artistic  failure?" 

"That's  unjust,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Velly.  "But  if  it's 
true,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  common  honesty.  Be  a 
drudge  and  an  honest  man,  if  it  comes  to  that." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  that  even  now,  with  all  our  cheese- 
paring life,  there's  still  a  debt  left?  Do  you  think  I  like 
this?"  he  exclaimed,  j)oinling  to  the  shabby  room.  "Do 
you  think  I  like  grudging  Thyrza  a  new  dress?" 

"It's  only  to  wait,  Ambrose;  only  a  short  time  now," 
she  pleaded.     "  We've  done  wonders  in  reducing  the  debt 


31 8  A  Man  of  Genius 

that  was  left.  And  then  there's  this  competition  you 
worked  at  when  the  boy  was  ill." 

"It'll  be  the  same  as  the  other,"  he  said  in  a  mood  of 
black  depression,  "for  it  wasn't  good  work.  Work!  How 
can  I  work  when  every  artistic  impulse  is  being  slowly 
strangled?  I  promised  increase  of  power — and  it's  failed 
me.     I'm  slowly  bleeding  to  death." 

At  last  Mrs.  Velly  exclaimed  suddenly — 

"There's  something  behind  all  this.  There  must  be. 
What  is  it,  Ambrose?  I  won't  leave  this  room  till  you  tell 
me." 

He  turned  round  quickly  and  looked  her  in  the  face. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  bending  close  to  her,  "do  you  re- 
member what  you  said  when  father  died?     That  I  must 


wm  up 


To  Mrs.  Velly  the  longing  of  years  was  bearing  a  bitter 
fruit  of  which  she  had  never  dreamt. 

"I  can  do  what  you  asked  then,"  he  said,  "and  do  it  at 
one  blow.  I'm  going  to  buy  Tonacombe  and  get  back  a 
fragment  of  the  old  Velly  lands.  It's  dirt  cheap,  for  the 
present  owner's  tired  of  waiting  for  a  purchaser.  Think, 
mother,  out  of  this  squalid  struggle  into — that!" 

"Buy  Tonacombe!  Why,  you  couldn't  even  live  there. 
What's  to  become  then  of  your  work?" 

"But  you  and  Thyrza  could." 

Mrs.  Velly  probed  deeper  into  Ambrose's  mind  than  he 
had  gone  himself,  for  it  was  his  personal  as  well  as  his 
mental  freedom  that  he  wanted.  His  next  words  echoed 
her  thought. 

"I'm  being  stifled,"  he  said.  "My  work's  ruined  with- 
out my  liberty." 

"And  can  any  man,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  bitterly,  "expect 
to  do  fine  work  on  the  foundation  of  a  lie?  The  walls 
you're  going  to  put  up  will  bury  your  talents  ten  times 


i 


The  Judgment  of  Paris  3  i  9 

deeper  than  care  could  do.  And  what  kind  of  \'elly  honour 
.will  you  take  back  to  the  Velly  lands,  you  who  will  have 
sunk  far  lower  than  ever  your  father  did?" 

With  a  gesture  of  despair  Mrs.  Velly  left  her  son  and 
went  upstairs  to  her  room;  but  instead  of  attempting  to 
lie  down  again,  she  dressed  herself  neatly  and  methodically, 
even  to  her  bonnet.  Then,  sitting  still  with  her  hands 
folded,  she  waited  for  the  morning,  while  Ambrose  let 
himself  out  of  the  house. 

The  lights  of  the  embankment  lamps  glittered  on  the 
waves  of  the  tidal  river  that  lapped  at  the  jetties,  and  the 
long  avenue  of  trees  stretched  away  along  the  river  side. 
In  the  sucking  sound  of  the  water  flowing  in  from  the  open 
sea  to  roar  through  the  arches  of  Bideford  bridge,  there 
was  a  noise  of  the  coming  and  going  of  active  life.  As  he 
listened,  Ambrose  was  revolted  by  the  narrow  limits  in 
which  the  strife  of  the  mind  has  to  be  waged.  He  longed 
for  an  escape  into  mental  vacuity,  envied  the  trawlers  of 
Appledore  and  the  coal-heavers  of  the  barges  moored 
alongside  the  quay,  who  slept  now,  forty  fathoms  deep  in 
slumber,  w^hile  he  walked,  a  restless  spirit  condemned  to 
the  strife  of  the  mind. 

He  had  listened  in  a  half-dream  to  the  man's  suggestions, 
dallying  with  the  power  they  offered  and  shying  mentally 
from  the  conditions  on  which  it  depended.  Now  his  mother 
had  forced  him  to  face  the  other  side  of  the  medal  and  in 
the  grip  of  this  temptation  the  master-passion  of  his  life 
came  at  last  to  the  surface. 

And  the  master-passion  was  his  art;  deeper  than  the  land 
;  hunger,  deeper  than  his  love  of  love  was  the  power  of  his 
I  worship  of  beauty.    Of  the  triple  fates,  of  which  the  Judg- 
\  ment  of  Paris  is  the  everlasting  symbol,  it  was  she  of  the 
skilled  hand  who  ruled.     For  he  knew  now  that  if  the  cun- 
ning of  his  brain  and  hand  were  to  be  injured  by  the  miasma 


320  A  Man  of  Genius 

of  a  lie,  then  no  glib-tongued  agent  of  a  cheating  firm  could 
ever  buy  him. 

Yet,  it  was  not  true  that  a  man's  morals  affected  his  ; 
work,  else  were  all  great  artists  saints.  His  Rabelaisian  i 
mockery  of  high  things  jeered,  as  he  thought  how  far  off  J 
the  truth  this  was.  Adultery,  murder,  false-swearing — all 
these  to  be  found  in  artists'  lives  no  doubt;  Cellini  was  , 
not  the  only  thief,  fornicator  and  assassin  of  the  noble  j 
guild  of  beauty-builders.  S 

Yet  again,  to  his  art  not  one  true  artist  was  ever  false,  j 
They  might  lie  in  every  other  relation  of  life,  but  when  the  i 
fiddler  took  up  his  bow,  the  painter  his  brush,  and  the  poet 
his  pen,  then,  as  far  as  the  vision  of  it  had  reached  them, 
they  told  the  truth. 

And  a  building  that  was,  in  the  very  material  of  its; 
structure,  a  lie,  implied  an  architect  who  was  a  liar  in  his| 
own  art.  From  this  verdict  there  was  no  escape.  He, 
paused,  looking  down  to  where  the  river  broadened  in  its  j 
seaward  course.  To  him  it  was  a  symbol  of  his  thoughts! 
that,  widening  into  ever  larger  circles,  embraced  all  the  \ 
worlds  of  desire.  j 

They  carried  him  to  Damaris  Westaway  at  last,  for  it  ^ 
was  she  who  had  first  shown  him  what  the  inspiration  : 
of  beauty  might  be,  and  in  the  light  of  her  ideal  he  knew  < 
how  pinchbeck  was  the  dignity  of  landed  estates,  or  wealth,  ^ 
or  any  outward  symbol  whatever.  Thus  Ambrose  judged  j 
between  the  goddesses  who  offer  the  kingdom  of  power  or  j 
the  kingdom  of  beauty.  Yet  there  remained  a  third  god-  ■ 
dess,  she  that  tests  the  heart-strings  of  a  man,  and  comes  | 
in  as  many  forms  as  the  quivering  rays  of  light  that  dance  ;i 
on  the  sea-foam,  for  which  reason,  doubtless,  she  was  known  ] 
of  old  as  sea-born.  i 

Mrs.  Velly  caught  the  six  o'clock  brake  for  Hartland,  ! 
and  by  breakfast  time  was  at  Dr.  Dayman's  door  enquiring  j 


The  Judgment  of  Paris  321 

for  Miss  Westaway.  Diimaris,  coming  downstairs  to  make 
the  doctor's  coffee,  saw  her  speaking  to  the  maid  on  the 
doorstep. 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  old  woman,  as  the  girl  would  have 
ushered  her  into  the  breakfast-room.  "  I  want  to  see  Miss 
Westaway  alone." 

After  her  sleepless  night,  the  table  sparkling  in  the  sun- 
shine with  silver  and  china,  made  her  eyes  ache. 

''  Come  in  here,"  said  Damaris,  opening  a  door  at  the 
back  of  the  house;  "we  shall  be  undisturbed  here.  But 
you  must  let  me  get  you  some  breakfast." 

Mrs.  Velly  feverishly  drained  the  tea  they  brought  her, 
but  eating  was  impossible. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  come  if  there  wasn't  mortal  need  of 
your  help,"  she  said;  "and  once  before  you  forced  my  son 
to  his  duty." 

"No;  that's  not  the  fact,  Mrs.  Velly.  I  only  showed  the 
way,  and  his  own  justice  carried  him  along  it." 

"Yet  it  was  you  and  your  father,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  vin- 
dictively, entirely  forgetting  her  own  anxiety  that  he 
should  go;  "it  was  you  that  sent  him  from  Long  Fur- 
long." 

"  Yes,"  said  Damaris  gently,  "  it  was." 

"  To  where  he  found  himself  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  whore 
of  Babylon  and  all  the  gentry  that  bow  down  to  Baal.  For 
that's  what  it's  come  to  now,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  grimly.  "  He 
had  a  seed  of  weakness,  and  now  it's  sprung  up  to  a  tree  in 
one  night." 

"Tell  me." 

"  He'll  bear  and  bear,  till  all  of  a  moment  his  strength's 
gone.  It's  gone  now.  He  says  he'll  have  no  woman 
meddling.     But  he  must." 

She  sketched  the  story  quickly  while  Damaris  listened, 
white-lipped,  as  if  at  a  nerve-shaking  call  for  help. 
21 


-322  A  Man  of  Genius  I 

] 

"But,  Mrs.  Velly,"  she  exclaimed,  "think  what  you're  j 
asking.     He  would  never  forgive  my  interference."  j 

"Go  and  wrestle  with  him,"  said  Mrs.  Velly,  being  of  I 
the  land  where  devil  hunts  were  common  not  so  long  ago,  \ 
and  where  the  evil  eye  is  still  dreaded  in  a  furtive  way.  ; 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  about,"  she  continued.  "  There's  i 
no  one  on  earth  that  is  to  him  what  you  are.  Away  up  i 
above  him,  and  yet  down  by  the  side  of  him  all  the  same.  I 
I  know,  for  that's  just  what  I  wasn't  to  the  man  that  asked  \ 
it  of  me  in  the  days  gone  by.  And  none  but  the  harlots  \ 
know  what  it  means  to  be  a  pure  woman." 

Damaris  sat  still,  resting  her  head  on  her  hand,  while  the  ■ 
old  woman  stood  leaning  over  her.  ^ 

"  I  cannot  help,"  said  Damaris  at  last.  "  I  have  nothing  ; 
to  do  with  it."  \ 

"  Yes,  you  can.  For  he's  more. to  you  than  any  man  has  J 
ever  been.  Oh,  don't  turn  away.  It's  death-grips  now, 
and  I  don't  care  what  I  say.  They  used  to  strip  a  poor  soul 
for  the  burning.  ...  I'm  stripped  now,  and  so  shall  you  be. 
I  say  he's  more  to  you  than  any  other  man.  And  he's  got 
to  be  righted,  as  you  righted  'en  once  before.  You're  a 
woman  with  iron  in  your  blood  and  can  bear  the  truth. 
And  you  know  it's  truth  what  I  said  about  you;  for  you're 
not  the  sort  that  goes  out  in  an  east  wind  and  swears  it  will 
make  the  lilies  blow.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  why  you  ; 
kept  his  wife  with  you  all  those  months?  You  never  did 
that  for  any  other  maid,  though  you've  helped  a  many. 
And  she  knew,  too." 

"But  you,  his  mother,  have  failed.  How  could  I  suc- 
ceed?" 

"  I'm  no  more  to  him  than  the  paring  of  his  nail,  except 
that  he  feeds  me  and  shelters  me.  What  I  eat  matters  to 
'en.    What  I  think,  doesn't." 

*'AndThyrza?" 


I 


The   Judgment  of  Paris  323 

"Thyrza!  Why,  if  he  said  to  her,  'Jump,  Th)Tza,  up 
into  the  noose  and  straight  to  Kingdom  Come,'  she'd  just 
wind  her  arms  round  'en  and  say,  '  Kiss  me  first,  Ambrose,' 
and  then  she'd  jump.  That's  Th^Tza.  She  can't  shake 
herself  free  of  him,  no  more  than  if  he  was  in  her  bones." 

*'I  have  no  power  over  him.  No  human  being  can  do 
for  him  what  you  want  me  to  do.  Hasn't  it  been  written, 
'Let  the  lllthy  be  filthy  still'?" 

"Only  God  can  say  that,  and  not  the  woman  who  loves 
a  man.     Ay,  loves  'en  better  than  her  own  happiness.** 

Damaris  leant  her  head  on  her  arms. 

''I  did  it  to  'en,"  whispered  Mrs.  Velly.  "I  did  it.  I 
gave  'en  the  weakness  though  I  didn't  know  it  then.  For 
most  women  have  their  fancies  when  they'm  quick.  In 
some  'tis  pancakes,  and  in  others  'tis  broad-figs  or  roast  pig. 
With  me  'twas  nothing  eatable,  'twas  just  strength.  I 
wanted  a  strong  man  as  soon  as  I  was  husband-high." 

Damaris  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  the  old  woman. 

"I  wanted  it  above  all  in  my  child.  But  I  didn't  lay 
down  what  sort  of  strength  'twas  to  be,  I  reckon,  and  it 
come  up  cross-wise,  upside  down.  And  so  he  thinks  land's 
strength,  with  the  soul  of  a  liar  to  till  it.  I've  bred  'en 
wrong." 

"What's  bred  can't  be  unbred." 

"Then  what's  the  good  of  living  if  we  can't  better  what 
we  was  at  birth;   what's  the  good  of  living,  I  say?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Damaris  bitterly;  "I  don't  know 
at  all  what's  the  use  of  living.     Nor  does  any  one." 

"I  thought  you  did.  I  hated  'ee  for  it  when  you  forced 
that  girl  on  my  son,  but  you  knew  your  way  well  enough 
then." 

"I'm  dazed.  I  must  think.  Let  me  go.  I  want  to  be 
alone." 

"Ay,  the  world's  falling,  same  as  it  did  round  me.  There's 


324  A  Man  of  Genius 

three  women  now,  hanging  on  his  yea  or  nay,  although  he 
doesn't  know  it.  But  you'll  wrestle  with  'en,  won't  you,  my 
dear  ?  My  God,  if  I  could  only  have  'en  back  safe  at  Long 
Furlong,  if  'twas  but  to  live  on  skim  milk  and  potato 
parings!" 

To  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Velly's  calibre  there  are  no  subtleties 
of  offence,  but  the  freedom  of  conscience  gained  by  that 
fact  is  counterbalanced  by  the  deeper  damnation  of  the  sins 
that  are  recognised.  To  her  all  prevarication  was  lying,  all 
xiinginess,  dirt,  all  shady  trade,  plain  theft.  In  the  first 
frenzy  of  her  knowledge  of  her  son's  weakness,  she  would 
have  dragged  the  whole  family  into  the  depths  of  poverty 
again.  For  the  idea  of  such  treachery  was  overwhelming 
to  Mrs.  Velly,  to  whom  the  proper  disposal  of  every  hour 
of  the  day,  and  perfect  honesty  in  butter  weighing  and  egg 
counting  had  always  been  the  ruling  principle.  A  woman's 
philosophy  seldom  penetrates  beyond  her  brain,  it  leaves 
her  blood  and  nerves  severely  alone.  Mrs.  Velly  was  per- 
fectly aware  that  she  was  not  in  any  sense  answerable  for 
her  son's  acts,  yet  to  her  feeling  they  were  one  flesh,  in  a 
far  deeper  sense  than  could  be  true  of  man  and  wife. 

"But,"  said  she,  with  a  slight  return  of  cheerfulness, 
"please  God,  I'll  have  the  smacking  of  little  Ambrose.  He 
shall  grow  up  honest,  if  the  smart  on  his  little  back  can 
make  him.  But  Thyrza  would  spoil  the  spirit  of  a  buck- 
rat  by  coddling  him,  if  she  had  the  chance." 

Damaris  sat  thinking  for  a  long  time,  for  she  knew  that 
an  appeal  to  Ambrose  was  out  of  the  question,  since  weak 
and  futile  action  would  be  worse  than  useless.  Mrs.  Velly 
sat  watching  her  steadily,  till  Damaris  felt  obliged  to  get  up 
in  order  to  avoid  her  glance. 

"If  you  think  you  can  help,  you  can,"  said  Mrs.  Velly  at 
last,  enunciating  the  true  doctrine  of  power. 

Yet  for  the  man  that  Ambrose  still  might  be,  nay,  for  the 


The  Judgment  of  Paris  325 

man  he  actually  was — to  her,  what  was  there  that  Damaris 
would  not  do? 

In  a  flash  of  memory  a  picture  came  to  her  of  a  ploughed 
field  with  a  blackbird  in  the  hedge,  caught  fast  with  its  leg 
in  a  gin  and  peering  at  her  with  pain-dimmed  eyes.  For 
fear  of  the  shock  to  herself,  she  had  passed  on,  leaving  the 
creature  in  its  agony.  Yet  all  the  night  that  followed, 
her  thoughts  had  been  with  the  poor  bird  bearing  the 
mounting  agony  in  its  body  to  spare  the  woman's  cowardly 
nerves.  It  was  dead  in  the  morning  when  she  went  to  it, 
but  the  memory  of  her  cowardice  pained  her  still.  She 
knew  that  the  thought  of  her  helplessness  in  these  dire 
straits  for  Ambrose  would  be  the  bitterest  thing  she  would 
have  to  look  back  on  in  after  years. 

Then  there  came  the  way  to  her  mind,  in  a  thought  that 
flushed  her  face  with  excitement. 

''Mrs.  Velly,"  she  said,  ''something  that  I  can  do  has 
occurred  to  me.  Something  that  will  make  it  impossible 
for  him  to  buy  Tonacombe;  and  that  idea  ended,  he  will  go 
on  bearing  his  povert}^  and  struggling  as  bravely  as  before." 

If  Mrs.  Velly  guessed  what  the  way  was,  she  made  no 
sign,  but  waited  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  other  woman's 
face. 

*'But,"  she  continued,  ''it  may  take  some  little  time  to  do 
what  I  have  in  mind.  And  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  being 
too  late." 

Scorching  painfully  as  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Velly  exclaimed — 

"But  he  can't  do  anything  yet,  I  think.  Not  till  the 
firm's  agent  is  round  again,  and  that  may  be  weeks.  No 
writing  must  pass,  you  see.  I  don't  ask  what  you'll  do,  for 
I  trust  you;  and  all  that  there's  best  in  my  boy's  life,  I  some- 
times think,  he  owes  to  you.  But  you'll  be  as  quick  as  you 
can,  my  dear?" 

"I  shall  n  ver  forget  what  you  said,  Mrs.  Velly,"  whis- 


326  A  Man  of  Genius 

pered  Damaris,  with  the  tears  starting;  ''for  often  it's  all 
that  we  women  can  do— to  lay  the  foundations  for  the  man 
we  love.     I  will  be  quick.     Only  give  me  a  day  or  two." 

For  there  was  no  concealment  possible  between  these  two 
women,  and  if  ever  any  proof  were  needed  of  Ambrose 
Velly's  personal  power  it  was  to  be  found  in  the  depth  of 
devotion  in  the  women  who  loved  him. 

When  Mrs.  Velly  was  gone,  Damaris  sat  down  deliberately 
to  bear  the  pain  that  was  mounting  to  her  heart;  for 
nothing  on  earth  can  be  more  bitter  than  the  suspicion  of 
weakness  and  meanness  in  those  we  love.  It  is,  in  truth, 
the  one  agony  that  no  personal  purity  can  soothe.  Yet 
Damaris  counted  up  the  excuses  for  Ambrose,  in  the  piti- 
ful fashion  of  a  woman  who  would  shield  a  child  from  the 
whip,  lying  to  herself  now  and  again  with  the  piteous  loving 
lies  that  the  angels  themselves  might  envy. 

But  no  woman  can  judge  a  man's  acts  as  another  man 
would,  for  she  is  either  in  love  with  the  man  judged  or  she 
is  not.  If  she  is  in  love,  the  love-light  distorts  everything, 
even  at  times  to  the  exaggeration  of  his  faults;  if  she  is 
not,  she  sees  everything  through  the  shadow  of  her  own 
ideal,  far  from  the  glare  of  the  market-place  in  which  he 
has  to  act.  For  a  woman's  moral  judgment  comes  from 
her  own  emotional  ideal  of  purity,  whereas  a  man  attains 
to  his  by  the  practical  test  of  result.  Hence  her  fall  from 
her  own  standard  is  absolute,  for  the  fragments  of  a  broken 
ideal  cannot  be  mended;  whereas  results  are  piebald  horses, 
and  often  very  much  like  one  another  when  they  reach  the 
winning-post. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
THE  WINGS  OF  PEACE 

UNDER  the  archway  of  the  porter's  lodge  at  Tona- 
combe  Dr.  Dayman  and  Damaris  Westaway  stood 
for  a  moment  to  enjoy  the  cloistered  stillness  of  the  small 
courtyard,  set  in  grey  walls  where  the  ivy  rustled  with  a 
multitude  of  sparrows.  At  first  it  was  the  only  sound  that 
the  ear  could  distinguish,  for  the  roar  of  the  sea  was  dead- 
ened by  the  enclosing  walls.  Gradually,  however,  they 
could  hear  a  droning  note  that  hummed  incessantly,  now 
rising  to  a  hollow  boom,  now  falling  to  a  sonorous  whistle: 
it  was  the  noise  of  a  steam-thresher  from  where,  on  a 
distant  hill,  the  year's  harvest  was  being  winnowed.  Hour 
after  hour  of  the  day  the  note  of  the  great  engine  con- 
tinued, while  even  in  cliff  ravines,  faintly  perceptible  above 
the  roar  of  pebbles  and  the  hiss  of  spray,  the  throb  of  the 
winnowing- fan  sounded  its  undertone. 

The  next  moment  the  arrival  of  the  visitors  was  dis- 
covered, and  there  came  a  rush  of  barking  dogs  round  the 
corner  of  the  "street."  The  farmer  who  occupied  the 
rear  portion  of  the  building,  once  merely  the  kitchens  of 
the  manor-house,  was  to  show  the  place. 

**Ay,"  said  he,  eyeing  the  cloudless  sky  with  a  cynical 
glance,  "it's  a  foxy  day,  this,  that'll  bring  rain  or  snow 
before  long.  Sun  like  this  isn't  natural  to  the  time  of 
year." 

"Pack  o'  nonsense,  Vosper,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  as  they 
327 


328  A  Man  of  Genius 

followed  the  man  into  the  hall;  ''it's  a  ribbon  day  for  me, 
for  it  isn't  often  that  I  go  gallivanting  for  a  whole  day  like 
this." 

Dr.  Dayrhan  had  now  a  partner,  and  it  had  not  proved  a 
very  hard  matter  for  Damaris  to  persuade  him  to  drive  her 
over  to  see  the  old  place. 

On  the  hearth  a  log-fire  sent  out  the  smell  of  oozing  sap 
and  the  deep  walls  shut  off  the  noise  of  the  winno wing- 
fan.  Tables  and  chairs  of  old  oak  still  stood  in  the  hall 
and  oi;ie  ray  of  sunlight  threw  bright  discs  of  colour  high 
up  above  the  fireplace. 

"We're  obliged  to  light  a  fire  here  winter-times.  Every- 
thing smells  dampish  else,"  said  the  farmer. 

Through  the  lozenged  windows  of  the  panelled  drawing- 
room  Damaris  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sunlight  on  the 
smooth  turf.  In  the  rays  of  it  she  could  almost  see  the 
stately  ladies  in  hoops  and  farthingales  who  had,  in  the 
long  chain  of  life,  given  the  blessing  of  Ambrose  Velly 
to  a  grateful  world.  Passing  through  the  room  she  leant 
for  a  moment  on  the  sill,  looking  out  at  the  walled  Plea- 
saunce,  where  a  black  cat  sat  engaged  with  the  cares  of 
the  toilet.  Outside  on  the  cliffs  the  breakers  were  roaring, 
yet  here  sat  puss  holding  up  a  paw  while,  with  the  talons 
extended  like  fingers,  she  pulled  out  the  pads  with  her 
white  teeth,  thus  applying  sharp  massage  to  these  dainty 
members.  In  the  intervals  of  labour  she  gazed  with  eyes 
of  butter-cup  yellow  at  the  sunshine  that  shone  on  the 
winged  eagles  of  the  gateway.  She  was,  thought  Damaris, 
in  the  complacency  of  her  grace,  the  very  image  of  Thyrza. 

Upstairs  Damaris  stood  for  a  long  while  by  the  arrow- 
slit,  or  solar-window,  in  the  wall  of  the  large  panelled  bed- 
room. Through  this  she  could  see  straight  into  the  hall, 
where  Dr.  Dayman  stood  talking  with  the  farmer.  It  was 
late  in  the  week,  and  Mr.  Vosper's  shaving-day  was  a  Satur- 


The  Wings  of  Peace  329 

day,  hence  his  cheeks,  when  he  laughed,  ran  into  furrows  of 
greyish  stubble. 

In  the  white  purity  of  the  light  from  the  traceried  windows 
the  memories  of  bygone  lives  seemed  shining  into  a  fastness 
of  the  olden  world,  far  remote  from  the  roar  of  the  present. 
With  a  pang,  Damaris  remembered  the  mean  little  house 
that  Ambrose  inhabited  in  Bideford;  for  the  last  time  she 
visited  the  town  she  had  seized  the  opportunity  to  walk 
down  his  street.  The  second  room  that  opened  on  the 
Queen  Anne  staircase  should,  she  thought,  have  been  the 
nursery.  Yet  it  was  over-dark  for  a  child,  who  would 
want  a  gay  room  with  a  nursery  paper  on  the  walls,  cov- 
ered with  baby  pictures  of  lambs  and  other  delights. 
Damaris  knew  quite  well  how  one  would  carry  a  child 
round  the  room  to  look  at  them,  cuddling  his  toes  in  one 
hand  as  one  did  so. 

When  she  went  downstairs  she  found  a  meal  of  bread 
and  cheese  laid  for  them,  with  a  tea-tray  for  herself.  The 
doctor  was  holding  up  a  bottle  to  the  light. 

''Look  at  this,"  he  cried,  as  Damaris  appeared. 

It  was  a  ''seal"  bottle,  with  the  inscription,  "Rev.  R.  S. 
Hawker.     Morwenstow,  1837." 

"This  was  made  by  Passon  Hawker,"  said  Dr.  Dayman, 
"to  commemorate  the  accession  of  Queen  Victoria.  The 
cordial,  I'll  warn,  is  made  from  sloes  grown  at  Stanbury 
Lane,  and  Plymouth  gin,  the  "Monk"  brand.  Taste  it, 
Princess,"  he  said,  smacking  his  lips  amorously  as  the  fme 
scent  rose  from  the  glasses.  "Do  you  know,  Vosper,  that 
Plymouth  gin  is  the  chief  ingredient  in  all  the  best  cocktails 
made  in  America?" 

"All  I  know  is,"  said  the  farmer,  "that  us  found  half  a 
dozen  botdes  in  the  cellar,  of  cowslip  wine,  and  such  old 
trade;   but  beer's  more  to  my  taste." 

"What  sort  of  land  is  it,  Vosper?"  said  he. 


330  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Well,  the  pasture's  fair  and  dry,  and  there's  not  much 
fear  of  caud  in  the  liver  for  the  sheep.  And  as  for  the 
house,  the  dairy  might  be  worse.  Winter-times  you  want 
all  the  mow-stones  you  can  get  to  keep  the  ricks  covered, 
and  there's  more  murs  and  gulls  than  folks,  and  not  so 
much  as  a  pannier-market  nearer  than  Bude.  But  there's 
worse  places  than  Morwenstow." 

"  'Tis  just  the  place  for  gobby  (weird)  tales,"  said  the 
doctor,  who  always  used  far  more  dialect  than  the 
natives. 

"There's  a  headless  dog  that  walks  down  'the  street,'  " 
grinned  Vosper.  "And  a  hand,  they  say,  unhapses  the 
door  to  the  bottom  of  the  staircase.  'Tis  well,"  said  he, 
enjoying  Damaris's  shivers,  "that  we'm  living  when  we  be, 
and  not  when  my  grandmother  was  a  cheeld.  For  then, 
all  up  the  woods  the  yeth  (hell)  hounds  would  be  baying. 
And  what's  worse,  'They'  was  above  ground  by  troops. 
Seen  'em  by  the  score,  hundreds  of  times,  so  her  used  to 
say." 

Damaris  felt  herself  passing  back  into  the  shadows  of  the 
grey  world. 

"Who  were  'They'?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  the  dead  folks,  ma'am.  But  folks  know  what  to 
do  now." 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?"  asked  Dr.  Dayman, 
thinking  how  Mr.  Westaway  would  have  seized  note-book 
and  pencil. 

"Why,  back  along,  with  the  words  'dust  to  dust  and  ashes 
to  ashes,'  they  never  threw  so  much  as  a  handful  of  earth  on 
the  coffin.  But  now  the  grave-digger  always  chucks  in  a 
clod  or  two  and  it  keeps  'em  down.  But  that  was  never 
done  when  my  grandmother  was  a  cheeld,  and  so  the 
dead  come  back  then  without  so  much  as  a  by-your-leave. 
But  what's  a  ghost  or  two,  or  a  headless  dog,  here  and 


The  Wings  of  Peace  3  3 1 

there?"  said  he,  in  a  generous  s})irit.  "They  mostly  pass 
'ee  by." 

"Capital  place  for  smuggling,"  said  the  doctor. 

"There's  an  underground  way  to  the  smuggler's  cave  on 
Greenvvay,  the  private  bay  of  the  estate,"  said  Damaris, 
and  up  every  chimney  there's  a  hiding  place.  Between 
the  Blue  Room  and  the  drawing  room  there's  a  money- 
hoard,  a  sort  of  funnel  between  the  two  walls,  and  up  in  the 
roof  of  Michael's  room  there's  a  secret  chamber." 

The  doctor  looked  curiously  at  her,  for  she  seemed  as 
familiar  with  Tonacombe  as  with  the  Prust  manor-house, 
and  yet  she  had  never  seen  it  before,  as  far  as  he  knew. 

"Ay,  'tis  a  proper  old  cubby-house  of  deceits,"  said 
Vosper,  "and  there's  been  witches  in  the  parish  and  that 
not  so  long  ago.  But,  there,  'tis  easy  dealing  with  they 
gentry.  If  they  hags  'ee  in  the  night,  just  you  go  out  and 
drive  a  nail  in  the  ground,  and  the  next  person  that  comes 
limping  to  the  house  is  the  witch.  To  keep  'em  out  o'  nights, 
drive  a  knife  into  the  key-hole,  for  that  spits  'em.  But  I 
reckon  'tis  time  for  me  to  leave  'ee  to  your  dinner." 

"I'll  warn,"  said  the  doctor,  as  Damaris  lifted  the  teapot, 
"that  they  still  sow  seed  from  a  zellip  here,  as  they  used  to 
when  I  was  a  boy.  That's  the  old  seed-lip,  you  know,  used 
before  the  drill  came  in." 

He  was  as  gay  as  a  boy,  as  they  ate  and  drank,  with  the 
place  getting  more  shadowy  every  minute  outside  the  circle 
of  the  fire,  which  they  fed  from  a  box  of  copse-cuttings  that 
stood  by  the  hearth. 

"Now,"  said  he,  drawing  a  paper  from  his  pocket,  "I 
want  your  careful  consideration  of  this.  I  went  up  to  the 
Devonshire  dinner  last  year,  and  they  gave  us  Devonshire 
cream  and  junket." 

"Well,  why  not?"  laughed  Damaris. 

"Why  not,  saith  she.     Why,  because  one  swallow  doesn't 


332  A  Man  of  Genius 

make  a  summer,  and  that's  all  we  had  that  was  Devonshire. 
Just  you  listen  to  this.     Tell  me  how  it  strikes  you." 

Spectacles  on  nose  he  went  solemnly  through  the  menu, 
marking  the  courses  with  a  beat  of  his  great  forefinger. 

Chives  Soup 
Tea-kettle  Broth 

Whitebait  from  the  mouth  of  the  Exe 
Clovelly  Herrings 

Squab  Pie 
Leekie  Pie 

Venison  from  Exmoor 

Saddle  of  Exmoor  Mutton  and  Laver  Sauce 

Pig's  Chitterlings 
Hog's  Pudding 

Mazzard  Tart  and  Clotted  Cream 
Whortleberry  Tart  and  Clotted  Cream 
Junket 

Coffee 
Metheglin 
Plymouth  Gin 

''Now,"  said  he,  looking  over  his  glasses  at  her,  **do 
you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  that?" 

"Use  it  for  your  next  dinner  party,"  said  Damaris 
maliciously,  for  she  knew  the  Doctor's  weakness  for  econ- 
omy. 

"No,  madam,"  he  shouted,  "I'm  going  to  send  it  to  the 
secretary  of  the  Devonshire  dinner,  and  if  he  uses  it  I'll 
come  up  to  dine  with  'em,  and  if  he  doesn't  I  won't.  And 
I  suppose  you  call  that  cheek?"  he  chuckled. 

"Something  rather  like  it,"  acquiesced  Damaris.     "But 


The  Wings  of  Peace  333 

you're  both  loyal  sons  of  Devon,  so  I  expect  he'll  love  you 
the  better  for  it." 

"Your  hand's  bleeding,"  said  he,  glancing  at  Damaris  as 
she  ate  jam  piled  on  the  top  of  her  cream. 

He  caught  her  there,  for  with  all  her  knowledge  of  the 
dialect,  she  did  not  know  the  phrase  that  signifies  jam  and 
cream  together. 

"And  you,  doctor,  have  got  an  eye  too  big  for  your  belly," 
said  she,  using  the  homespun  expression  that  means  an 
over-large  helping.  She  was  trying  to  summon  up  courage 
for  an  avowal. 

"Doctor,"  she  asked  at  last,  "do  you  know  why  I  brought 
you  here  to-day?  I  know  you  thought  it  was  because  I 
wanted  an  outing.  But  there  was  a  more  serious  reason. 
Who  do  you  think  is  the  owner  of  these  wild  acres  and 
this  old  house  ?  " 

"A  fellow  called  Kempthorne,  you  said.  Not  that  it's 
of  any  importance,  since  I  don't  want  to  buy  it." 

"You  can't,  unless  you  buy  it  from  me.  For  I,  moi  qui 
vous  parle,  am  the  owner  of  so  much  ling,  heather,  gorse, 
and  cliff." 

"Now,  what  ridiculous  rigs  have  you  been  up  to?"  said 
he  crossly. 

"Do  you  remember  that  you  once  guessed  a  secret  of 
mine?"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  thought  you'd  forgotten  the  fellow." 

"  In  one  sense,  I  have.  He's  very  far  away  from  me,  now, 
and  yet  very  near.  I  may  perhaps  never  see  him  again, 
but  I  hope  to  see  his  work.  You  didn't  think  women  ever 
cared  for  a  man's  work,  even  more  than  for  the  man,  I 
suppose.     But  they  do  sometimes." 

"I'm  sitting  on  thorns,  Damaris,"  said  Dr.  Dayman 
plaintively,  "till  I  know  whether  you  are  delirious  or  not." 

Damaris  laughed. 


334  ^  Man  of  Genius 

"Ambrose  Velly,"  she  said,  ''has  had  a  sore  battle  with 
himself  and  with  things.  And  the  things  seemed  likely  to 
get  the  better  of  him.  Mrs.  Velly  came  to  me  last  week 
in  great  trouble,  for  this  place  was  a  temptation  to  him. 
He  was  tempted  to  sharp  practice  in  order  that  he  might 
buy  it." 

She  walked  away  to  the  window,  while  the  doctor  watched 
her  anxiously. 

"All  his  life,"  she  continued,  coming  back  to  the  fire  after 
a  silence,  "all  his  life  his  mother  has  dinned  into  his  ears 
that  he  must  retrieve  the  family  fortunes.  Then  there 
came  the  means  of  buying  Tonacombe,  if  he  would  but 
juggle  a  little  with  his  honesty." 

"And  so  you  bought  it  over  his  head  to  save  him,"  said 
the  doctor. 

"There  was  no  other  way  that  I  could  think  of,"  she 
said. 

"Will  he  like  your  doing  it,  Damaris?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"I  cannot  tell;  but,  somehow,  I  think  he  will  under- 
stand. For  in  mind  we're  very  near  to  one  another.  And 
when  that's  the  case,  one  can  know  everything  without 
giving  pain  by  the  knowledge." 

"And  he  is  all  that  to  you?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Oh,  I  don't  grieve,  I  only  want  to  see  him  what  he 
might  be." 

''And  so  you  give  away  your  living.  For  on  what  are 
you  going  to  live,  if  you've  sunk  all  your  capital  in  this 
place?" 

Unknown  to  Damaris,  the  doctor's  avarice  was  at  bay 
in  him,  for  he  saw  a  way  to  retrieve  her  error,  though  he 
was  averse  to  sacrificing  himself. 

"Do  you  remember,  doctor,  that  years  ago,  whenever 
I  picked  up  a  new  dialect  word,  you  used  to  say,  'Put  'un 
in,  my  dear,'   to  the  book   I  was  to  write?     Well,   I've 


The  Wings  of  Peace  335 

written  that  book  and  sold  it.  I've  got  the  tip  of  my  pen 
in  the  world's  oyster.     It's  called  A  Man  oj  Genius.''' 

"Oh,"  cried  he,  with  a  shout,  "so  that's  the  way  the  cat 
jumps,  is  it?  Where  will  you  get  your  next  hero  from?'' 
he  added  mischievously.  "For  this,  I  fancy,  might  have 
been  called  A  Man  oj  Devon.'' 

"That's  been  used,"  said  Damaris  with  a  blush. 

"You  know,  my  dear,"  he  chuckled,  "a  woman  of  letters 
has  to  have  a  new  lover  for  every  new  book.  But,"  he  said, 
following  her  out  of  the  house,  "if  you're  going  to  live  here, 
what's  to  become  of  me?" 

"Will  you  come,  too.  Dr.  Dayman?  I  don't  think  you 
can  get  along  now  without  me.  And  you  shall  have  a 
regular  hospital  to  look  after,  for  I  mean  to  get  city  waifs 
down  for  the  sea  to  nurse." 

Dr.  Dayman  had  a  theory  that  the  sea,  who  ages  ago 
bore  in  her  womb  the  seeds  of  both  animal  and  human  life, 
is  the  elemental  mother  who  can  most  quickly  thrill  the 
weakly  children  of  the  race  with  vital  force.  Damaris  knew 
that  he  would  thoroughly  enjoy  himself  as  the  presiding 
genius  of  her  sea  nursery. 

But  the  doctor  was  shaking  an  apple  tree  in  the  garden, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  he  came  back  to  her  with  a  handful 
of  the  plump  and  red-streaked  "sweet  broadeyes"  that  carry 
in  their  juicy  flesh  more  of  the  pungent  savour  of  the  earth 
than  anything  else  that  grows,  save  perhaps  the  Cornish 
gillyflower  and  the  hay-scented  fern  of  the  Devon  hedges. 

"This  place '11  suit  me  uncommon,"  he  said;  "but  it 
won't  belong  to  you  much  longer,  for  I'm  going  to  buy  it 
of  you.  And  you  and  the  brats  can  come  and  lodge  with 
me.     I'll  adopt  'em  all.     It's  high  time  I  shut  up  shop." 

Damaris  understood;  he  had,  as  Ambrose  would  have 
said,  wrung  the  neck  of  the  old  man's  peculiar  complaint, 
hatred  of  expenditure. 


336  A  Man  of  Genius 

Over  the  hills,  as  the  two  set  out  to  explore,  gleamed  a 
clear  sky.  Only  "the  cloud  of  the  day"  lay  in  a  great 
bank  over  the  sea  horizon,  while  all  the  land  was  luminous 
with  the  shimmer  of  sunshine  on  woods  and  ploughland. 

Along  the  valley,  below  the  church  of  St.  Morwenna,  the 
bed  of  the  stream  was  marked  by  a  line  of  trees,  purple 
with  unburst  buds  above  the  hart's-tongue  fern.  Higher 
on  the  hillside,  branches  festooned  in  lichen  shaded  the 
tawny  bracken  with  delicate  shapes  in  grey  gossamer.  One 
side  of  the  valley  lay  in  deep  shadow,  and  on  the  sunny 
side  was  reflected  the  outline  of  the  church.  In  the  still- 
ness of  the  transforming  light  it  seemed  like  the  shadow  of 
a  man's  hand  laid  on  the  rough-hewn  breast  of  nature. 

"Down  there,"  said  Dr.  Dayman,  pointing  to  the  rocks 
below  Hennacliff,  "Hawker's  men  used  to  pick  up  the 
gobbets  of  flesh  from  the  drowned  men.  That  was  reality; 
this,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  church  and  its  shadow,  "is 
dream." 

"Then,"  said  she  quietly,  "we'll  just  go  on  dreaming." 

"Men  will,"  he  answered  softly,  "as  long  as  women  love 
as  you  do.  Princess." 

It  was  bedtime  in  the  farmyard  when  they  left.  For  at 
sunset  from  the  darkening  fields  the  cows  were  filing  in  for 
their  long  winter's  night  rest,  which  often  lasts  from  five 
o'clock  in  the  evening  to  eleven  next  morning.  There  they 
stood  in  patient  groups,  with  tightly  curled  flanks  and  soft, 
slow  gaze,  filling  the  yard  with  the  sweetness  of  their  breath, 
while  they  waited  for  the  shippen  doors  to  be  opened. 
On  the  topmost  branches  of  the  trees  the  sunset  glow  still 
lingered,  and  from  the  cliffs  came  the  quiet  breathing  of 
the  sea. 

Over  in  Bideford  Mrs.  Velly  was  hurrying  to  the  office 
of  Trevithick  and  Jerman  with  Damaris  Westaway's  letter 
in  her  pocket.     She  found  Ambrose  sitting  at  work  in  his 


The  Wings  of  Peace  337 

private  room,  and  at  the  first  sight  of  her  white  Hps  and 
trembling  hands  he  imagined  that  she  was  the  bearer  of 
bad  news. 

"What  is  it,  mother?"  he  asked,  putting  her  gently  into 
a  chair. 

"It's  that  night  when  I  heard  you  talking,"  she  said. 

They  had  never  mentioned  the  subject  since  her  return 
from  Hartland,  and  Ambrose  had  never  even  asked  where 
she  spent  that  day. 

"  I  want  you  to  read  that,"  he  said,  handing  her  an  open 
typed  sheet  and  watching  her  intently.  There  came  back 
to  him  the  moment  when  he  had  gone  down  over  the  clifif 
at  Smoothlands,  for  the  sweetness  of  a  similar  triumph  was 
here. 

At  first  there  was  a  mist  before  Mrs.  Velly's  eyes,  but  at 
last  she  saw  that  it  was  a  commission  to  a  firm  of  con- 
tractors to  supply^the  interior  wooden  fittings  of  the  asylum. 
So  Damaris  had  sacrificed  herself  in  vain,  she  said  bitterly. 

She  swayed  slightly  in  the  agony  of  the  moment,  till  her 
son  steadied  her  with  his  arm. 

"That's  not  the  firm  that  tried  to  buy  me,"  he  said  gently. 
"This" — he  struck  the  paper — "is  my  answer  to  them." 

In  the  next  room  there  were  short,  sharp  answers  and 
replies,  and  from  the  street  came  the  wheezy  groan  of  a 
barrel-organ,  but  Mrs.  Velly  heard  only  the  rustling  wings 
of  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  COSMIC  DANCE 

AT  last  there  came  to  Thyrza  the  moment  of  which 
Damaris  Westaway  had  warned  her  long  ago  at 
Bradworthy,  the  moment  when  she  knew  herself  the  wife 
of  a  great  man,  and  felt  her  little  bark  launched  for  the 
open  waters  that  she  dreaded.  The  morning  light  shone 
clear  on  them  all  as  they  sat  round  the  breakfast-table;  the 
child  in  his  high  chair  was  drumming  on  the  table  for  his 
porridge,  and  Mrs.  Velly  leant  forward,  holding  the  teapot 
poised  in  her  hand.  Before  she  put  it  down  the  world  had 
changed  for  them  all;  Ambrose  held  in  his  hand  the  open 
letter  which  announced  that  he  would  be  the  architect  of 
the  Oratory,  for  the  design  sent  in  at  the  time  of  bitter 
struggle  had  been  better  work  than  he  realised. 

Suddenly,  her  eyes  filling  with  tears,  Thyrza  got  up 
hurriedly  and  left  the  room,  for  the  small  house  where  they 
had  lived  so  meagrely  seemed  a  paradise  whose  gates  were 
now  closing  behind  her.  Yet  she  could  not  bear  to  cloud 
the  radiance  of  his  rapt  face,  white  and  tense  with  excite- 
ment.    But  he  had  followed  her  upstairs. 

''Thyrza,"  he  cried,  "Thyrza,  did  you  hear?  It's  come, 
the  great  moment.     Oh,  my  wife,  aren't  you  glad?" 

With  a  cry  she  turned  towards  him. 

"Child,  what  is  it?"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  felt  her  shudder. 

"You're  going  away,"  she  said,  "where  I  can't  follow 
you.  I  dread  it  so — the  big  world  that's  calling  you.  Long 
ago  she  said  I  should  disgrace  you." 

338 


The  Cosmic  Dance  339 

"She?     Who?" 

"Miss  Westaway." 

"Why,  that's  queer,"  he  said,  "I  forgot  it  in  the  excite- 
ment of  this.  But  by  this  same  post  there  came  an  invita- 
tion for  you  and  me  to  go  to  Tonacombe  for  a  few  days. 
And,  by  Jove,  we  will,  too.  I  wouldn't  have  gone  under 
other  circumstances,  but  this,'*  he  struck  the  letter  he 
carried,  "  changes  everything.  I  don't  fear  even  the  charm 
of  Tonacombe,  with  a  success  like  this  at  the  back  of  me." 

"That's  the  beginning,"  said  Thyrza  coldly,  drawing 
away  from  him.  "  You'll  go  to  Tonacombe  and  then  you'll 
go  to  other  places  where  you'll  be  ashamed  of  me.  I  shall 
soon  be  nothing  to  you.  I  shall  demean  you,  for  I  don't 
even  know  how  to  dress  right.     I  can  only  love  you." 

"Aren't  you  glad  for  me?"  he  asked,  his  face  falling. 
"When  I  opened  the  letter,  I  swear  I  thought  of  your  joy 
before  my  own.  Why,  there's  mother  below  chanting  the 
Nunc  Dimittis.  Thyrza,  what  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with 
you?" 

"I'm  only  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  a  plain  man,"  she  said 
bitterly.  "  She,  over  there,  will  be  able  to  talk  to  you  about 
your  work.  I  can  see  her  now,  while  I  look  on  at  her  talk- 
ing to  you,  using  words  I  couldn't  even  say.  Oh,  my 
heavens,  how  can  I  live?    How  can  I  live?" 

"Thyrza,  is  it  all  forgotten?  That  night  when  the  boy 
nearly  died?  Do  you  think  I — or  you — will  ever  get  be- 
yond that  night?" 

"But  for  him,"  she  said,  raising  her  head  from  the 
mantelpiece  on  which  she  had  hidden  her  face — "but  for 
him,  you  would  never  have  married  me.  It  never  ought  to 
have  been." 

The  next  moment,  as  Ambrose  turned  on  his  heel  and 
left  the  room,  she  would  have  given  the  world,  only  to 
recall  her  unwise  words.     Yet  all  the  morning  the  absurd 


340  A  Man  of  Genius 

trifles  of  the  future  filled  her  fancy;  as  she  carried  her 
basket  to  the  market  for  butter  and  eggs  and  vegetables, 
she  wondered  whether  in  the  new  life  she  would  be  obliged 
merely  to  give  orders.  All  the  delights  of  cheapening  here, 
and  saving  a  penny  there,  would  be  over  for  ever. 

At  last  Thyrza  caught  sight  of  Chrissie  Rosevear  in  a 
crowd  of  chattering  countrywomen,  who  were  making  up 
for  the  social  starvation  of  their  normal  days  by  a  bout  of 
gossip  over  great  market  baskets  filled  with  pallid  fowls 
and  disembowelled  geese. 

"  Oh,  Chrissie!"  she  exclaimed,  "what  years  and  years  it 
seems  since  I  saw  you." 

Laughing  and  buxom,  Chrissie  panted  along  by  Thyrza's 
side,  till  they  reached  a  quiet  side  street. 

"Well,  how's  the  world  been  serving  you,  Thyrza?"  she 
asked.  "I've  had  a  mind  to  come  and  see  'ee  several 
times  market  days,  but  I  didn't  know  whether  you'd  want 
to  see  me." 

"  We  shan't  be  here  long,  Chrissie,  for  Ambrose  has  won 
a  prize  in  competition.  I  dread  it  so,  for  I  shan't  know  my 
bearings  among  grand  folks." 

"  I  shouldn't  fret  my  gizzard  about  that  if  I  was  you," 
said  Chrissie.  "  Folks  is  folks,  and  pretty  much  alike,  too, 
whether  up  or  down." 

"  But  you  don't  know,  Chrissie,  what  'twill  be  like.  He'll 
look  at  me  and  wonder  if  I'm  looking  right,  and  I  shall  be 
afraid  to  open  my  lips  with  'en." 

"My  dear  soul,  I  shouldn't  care  if  I  was  in  my  shift,  if 
so  be  as  it  suited  me  to  wear  it.  And  if  my  ways  didn't  suit 
'en,  why,  'twas  for  better,  for  worse,  and  that  I'd  soon  let  'en 
know." 

"I  can't  hold  'en,  Chrissie.  There's  days  and  days  he 
never  knows  whether  I'm  there  or  not.  I  stood  behind 
*en  the  other  day,  and  he  never  knew  I  was  waiting  for  'en 


The  Cosmic  Dance  341 

to  look  up.  My  word,  I  could  have  took  up  the  paper  and 
torn  it  right  across.  I  tell  you,  I'd  hard  work  to  keep  my 
hands  off  it.  For  I'm  naught  to  'en  the  side  of  an  old 
plan." 

Her  face  worked  furiously,  and  Chrissie  waited  till  she 
was  quieter. 

"  Every  woman  goes  through  with  that,  sooner  or  later," 
she  said  quietly.  "  Do  'ee  think  I  wake  John  up  o'  nights 
to  say,  'John,  do  'ee  love  me  still'?  Good  Lord,  he'd 
think  I  was  mazed.  It  can't  be  same  as  'twas  first  go  ofi", 
my  dear,  but  over  the  cheeld  you'll  meet." 

"  We  did,  we  did,"  cried  Thyrza. 

"And  he  trusts  'ee,  he  respects  'ee.  And  that  wears 
better  than  the  *Come-kiss-me-quick.'" 

''He's  never  forgotten,"  said  Thyrza  in  a  low  voice, 
"  though  he  doesn't  know  that  he  remembers  it.  He's  never 
forgotten  how  the  child  was  got.  There's  only  one  man 
who  respects  me — and  he  doesn't  know." 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Rosevear  sharply. 

"  John  Darracott,  the  other  man  that  cared  for  me.  I 
never  see  'en  now;  for  all  I've  heard  tell  he  is  still  in  Apple- 
dore  at  the  'gravel-loading." 

"Ay,"  said  Chrissie,  "that  is  a  man,  if  you  like.  When 
he  spoke  out  about  the  job  down  to  Quay  and  told  the 
truth  at  last,  my  John  said  to  me,  '  Chrissie,  that's  heart  of 
oak,  if  you  like.'  And  it  takes  a  sharp  pin  to  make  John 
Rosevear  jump." 

Thyrza  took  it  as  a  depreciation  of  her  husband:  she 
was  up  in  arms  in  a  moment.  "Why,  yes,"  she  said, 
"Darracott's  an  honest  man  enough,  but  Ambrose  is  a 
clever  one." 

To  Thyrza,  Ambrose  was  always  "clever,"  for  she  never 
knew  what  clever  meant  to  the  day  of  her  death,  to  which 
lack  of  perception  many  of  her  troubles  may  be  assigned. 


342  A  Man  of  Genius 

"And,"  she  continued,  "I'd  give  my  heart's  blood  for 
him  any  day." 

"Good  land,  child,"  cried  Chrissie  crossly,  *'and  what 
good  would  that  do  'en?  A  penn'ith  of  common  sense 
would  be  worth  all  the  blood  in  your  body  to  'en."  She 
departed,  shaking  her  head  forebodingly  over  the  future 
developments  of  the  Velly  history. 

The  finest  stimulus  to  the  brain-worker  is  success,  and 
now  to-night,  as  Ambrose  sat  at  work  on  a  last  design  for 
Trevithick  and  Jerman,  every  nerve  was  thrilling  with 
power.  A  plank  creaked  overhead  as  he  sat  over  his 
drawing-board  in  the  sitting-room,  but  he  was  dead  to  the 
outside  world  in  the  concentration  of  the  moment.  In 
front  of  him  he  saw  the  tower  of  a  church,  set  in  the  midst 
of  billowy  breasts  of  hills,  and  poised  on  the  side  of  one, 
like  a  ship  that  rides  downwards  into  the  trough  of  a 
wave.  He  was  studying  the  details  of  his  scheme,  like 
a  musician  at  work  on  a  fugue;  for  nowadays  so  much 
has  the  element  of  passion  invaded  the  arts,  that  only  in 
architecture  and  fugue  writing  is  the  intellectual  side 
uppermost. 

In  the  room  above  him,  Thyrza  was  kneeling  by  the  crib 
of  Ambrose  II.  Pressing  her  lips  to  his  flower-cheek,  she 
prayed  to  the  unseen  disposer  of  fate. 

"Ah,  give  him  back  to  me.  Give  him  back  to  me,  for 
he's  wandering  far  away  from  me  now.  Let  me  hold  'en 
a  little  longer  yet.     Only  a  little  longer." 

Then,  like  a  gambler  risking  all  on  the  cast  of  the  dice, 
she  drew  from  the  wardrobe  the  only  beautiful  dress  she 
had,  a  gown  of  filmy  black.  Standing  in  front  of  the  glass 
with  it  on,  she  watched  the  sequins  on  it  running  together 
into  molten  streams  with  every  movement  of  her  body, 
while  she  gazed  at  the  grace  of  her  figure,  the  suppleness 
of  her  skin,   with  the  confidence  of  a  swordsman  who 


The  Cosmic  Dance  343 

handles  a  trusty  blade,  or  passes  his  glance  along  the  walls 
of  a  well-equipped  armour}'. 

Outside  the  house,  the  guard-lights  on  the  coast  flashed 
their  message  of  warning  to  the  passing  vessels;  the  stars 
pulsed  and  paled,  and  in  the  murmur  of  the  wind  sounded 
the  whirring  undertone  of  the  world's  loom.  But  in  the 
pin-point  focus  of  her  own  longing  the  outer  world  was 
non-existent.  All  her  life  passed  before  her  eyes,  as  before 
a  drowning  man:  the  height  she  had  reached  with  Darracott 
on  the  last  night  she  had  ever  spoken  to  him,  the  depth 
she  had  touched  in  the  fatal  hour  when  she  failed  Am- 
brose. 

Still  moving  the  sequins,  she  faced  the  two — the  call 
of  the  spirit,  the  call  of  the  body.  The  same  woman  had 
answered  each — but  not  in  the  same  man.  The  ties  of 
mind  had  never  linked  her  to  her  husband,  and  the  tie 
of  the  body  was  going.  To  Ambrose  her  beauty,  coarsened, 
maybe,  by  a  hard  life,  but  still  there,  was  among  the  things 
that  are  old.  For  a  man  can  only  be  held  by  the  seduction 
of  change;  he,  not  woman,  being  the  truly  mutable. 

Yet  what  was  it  that  Ambrose  had  once  said  ?  The  most 
beautiful  thing  he  had  ever  seen — herself,  pale,  worn,  a 
tired  drudge,  leaning  over  a  baby's  cot.  Suddenly  the 
sequin  dress  had  become  the  robe  of  shame;  she  stripped 
it  off  and  stole  downstairs  in  her  old  brown  frock. 

Hour  after  hour  she  sat  by  the  fire  watching  Ambrose. 
Mrs.  Velly  looked  in  once  or  twice,  but  only  to  be  motioned 
away  by  Thyrza.  The  house  became  very  still,  for  the  old 
woman,  tired  of  waiting,  had  gone  up  to  bed. 

At  last  Ambrose  threw  down  his  pencil  and,  turning  in 
his  chair,  stretched  himself  in  the  blissful  relaxation  that 
follows  labour. 

"Why,  Thyrza,  I  made  sure  you  were  in  bed  long  ago." 

"  I  love  to  sit  and  watch  you,*'  she  said  quietly. 


344  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Ah,  child,  'tis  a  wonderful,  wonderful  world,"  he  cried, 
"  and  the  wonder  of  it  only  grows  greater  with  the  years.'* 

He  stood  leaning  with  his  shoulders  against  the  mantel- 
piece, looking  not  at  the  homely  room,  but  at  the  splendour 
of  the  future.  "The  glory  of  the  setting  sun,  the  music 
that  soars  beyond  our  dreams,  the  palaces  that  rise  in 
vision,  the  great  words  that  ring.  And  somebody  called 
it  *a  sorry  scheme.'  Good  Lord,  what  a  fool  that  man 
must  have  been!  It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  be  alive,  in  any 
of  the  worlds  there  are  for  a  man.  Which  of  them  do  you 
live  in,  Thyrza?"  he  asked,  suddenly  smitten  with  the  sense 
of  her  spiritual  poverty. 

It  hurt  him,  as  it  hurts  a  man  to  see  his  beloved  go  bare- 
foot and  ragged. 

"In  you,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him,  "the  greatest 
thing  in  the  world  to  me  is  just  you — and  yours.  It  always 
will  be  so,  Ambrose.  I'm  sorry  I  grudged  you  your  good 
fortune.  'Twas  only  a  part  of  me  that  did.  For  there's 
nothing  I  wouldn't  give  up  for  you,  really." 

In  truth,  the  hidden  purpose  of  this  life  can  be  none 
other  than  to  learn  the  secret  of  the  great  rejections  of  the 
world,  as  when  a  man  sacrifices  ease  to  unlock  the  gates  of 
knowledge,  or  refuses  bliss  to  serve  the  higher  purpose  of 
the  ages,  at  which,  as  yet,  he  can  only  dimly  guess.  Com- 
pared with  the  great  arc-lights  of  such  sacrifices  as  these, 
Thyrza's  small  act  of  self-conquest  was  but  a  rushlight  that 
feebly  flickers  in  the  darkness  of  a  great  room.  Yet  a 
rushlight  may  serve  to  mark  a  pathway. 

Then  Ambrose  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings  of  his 
fiddle,  and  in  the  war-march  that  he  played  they  both 
heard  the  wonder  of  the  fight:  the  hardly  contested  inches 
in  the  upward  strife,  the  bitter  corners  where  the  wind 
blows  cold  in  the  zig-zag  passage  to  the  heights. 

At  last  he  softly  touched  the  strings  to  the  tune  of  "The 


The  Cosmic  Dance  345 

Wind  among  the  Barley,"  and  as  suftly,  to  his  jigging,  her 
tears  fell. 

''Dance,  Thyrza,"  he  whispered  with  a  smile;  but  she 
shook  her  head,  for  the  girl  who  had  danced  at  Long" 
Furlong  was  dead.  The  Ambrose  of  those  old  days  was 
dead  too,  and  on  his  face  the  lines  were  gathering — the  fine 
lines  that  mark  the  patient  worker's  face,  the  human  carving 
in  which  is  written  the  finest  record  of  our  strange  race 
that  fronts  the  sunlight  of  the  divine,  even  though  its  feet 
be  in  mire. 

Yet  the  dancing  was  not  missed  entirely,  for  presently 
Mrs.  Velly  appeared,  carrying  in  her  arms  a  bed-gowned 
figure,  whose  bright  eyes  blinked  at  the  lights  in  the  room. 

"Here's  a  rascal,"  she  said.  "Look  at  his  eyes,  like 
diamonds.  There's  no  sleep  in  them.  I  hear,"  continued 
Mrs.  Velly,  on  whom  science  seemed  to  be  dawning  as 
once  it  shone  on  the  Copernican  age,  "  I  hear  that  they 
tell  up  some  old  tale  now  about  our  all  going  round  with 
the  earth.  Why,  they  might  have  learnt  that  from  the 
babies  long  ago;  for  when  they've  got  the  ache  in  their 
little  insides,  'tis  round  and  round  you've  got  to  go  with 
'em.  And  when  'tisn't  ache,  'tis  up  and  down  and  up  and 
down,  and  way  to  go,  and  dance  on  little  toes.  That's  the 
old  earth  going  round  inside  'en,  I  reckon." 

"That's  your  version  of  the  cosmic  dance,  mother," 
said  Ambrose,  as  she  set  the  baby  on  the  rug  in  front  of 
the  fire.     "Well,  I've  heard  worse  ones  than  that,  too." 

Then  he  drew  his  bow  and  played  a  little  trill,  high  up, 
like  the  fluting  of  a  gigantic  gnat;  to  the  sound  of  it  the 
merry  pink  toes  moved  solemnly  up  and  down,  and  the 
nut-brown  head  swayed  gleesomely  above  the  tumbled  bed- 
gown, which  Mrs.  Velly  held  by  the  tail.  Every  now  and 
then  a  little  laugh  rippled  out  for  the  joy  of  the  dancing 
blood  in  him. 


346  A  Man  of  Genius 

"  'Tis  most  as  warming  as  a  drink  of  home-made  pepper- 
mint-water to  look  at  that,"  cried  Mrs.  Velly;  "but,  my 
dear  days,  what  a  time  for  the  blessed  to  be  up!" 

But  she  had  not  the  heart  to  stop  the  clumsy  little  shuffle 
of  the  feet,  in  which  the  purpose  of  the  ages  was  fulfilled. 

"Thyrza,"  said  Ambrose,  "never  regret  anything.  For 
life  is  wonderful — in  its  dawning,  in  its  ending,  and  in  the 
hard  time  between." 

To  them  both  even  the  darker  memories  were  illumined 
by  the  unknown  purpose  that  unfolds  itself  in  flesh  and 
spirit  alike.  But  Thyrza  was  glad  that  the  sequin  dress 
hung  still  in  the  wardrobe. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 

"■QUT,"  said  Ambrose,  ''you  always  did  look  at  every- 
D  thing  sub  specie  aetemitatis." 

The  strange  words  arrested  Thyrza's  attention.  She  was 
playing  backgammon  with  Dr.  Dayman  in  the  hall  at  Tona- 
combe,  while  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace  Damans 
sat  talking  to  Ambrose. 

"I  remember  long  ago,"  he  continued,  "how  I  used  to 
toil  behind  your  idealism." 

'Tt  was  my  father's  trick,  I  suppose,"  answered  Damaris, 
'*!  must  have  caught  of  him.  Mere  breathing  was  never 
enough  for  me,  for  I  always  want  to  wring  the  best  out  of 
life,  and  that  can  only  be  done  by  giving  7}iy  ver)^  best. 
But  Ambrosian  life  is  a  different  matter,  no  doubt,"  she 
added,  with  a  laugh. 

Thyrza  watched  her  slim  form,  l>ing  back  in  an  old 
carved  chair,  with  her  long  hands  resting  on  the  arms  of  it. 
She  felt  herself  to  be  a  thick-set  farm-wench. 

''May  I  read  the  book  in  proof?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"It's  too  intimate,"  said  Damaris;  "you  could  not  read 
it  without  recognizing  the  source  of  many  things  in  it." 

"But  if  the  world  reads,  surely  I  may,"  he  answered, 
looking  down  at  her  bent  head. 

"That's  the  worst  of  the  pen,"  said  Damaris,  "it  runs 
away  with  one's  secrets." 

"The  mason's  trowel  doesn't,  thank  heaven,"  answered 
he,  with  a  laugh  of  pleasure  at  the  mere  interchange  of 

347 


348  A  Man  of  Genius 

thought.  Thyrza's  heart  ached  at  the  happiness  in  his 
tones. 

"She's  put  in  every  story  she  knows  about  me,"  grumbled 
Dr.  Dayman,  joining  in  the  conversation.  Thyrza  resented 
his  doing  so,  for  it  left  her  stranded,  the  one  person  who 
had  nothing  to  say. 

''She's  actually  got  the  tale  of  my  fat-heads,"  he  continued. 

"Your  fat-heads?"  asked  Ambrose. 

"Why,  yes;  there  were  five  old  fools  in  Hartland,  and 
every  time  one  died  I  planted  an  apple  tree  in  the  comer 
of  the  orchard  that  I  used  to  call  my  cemetery.  I  only 
had  the  chance  to  plant  three  before  she  carried  me  off  to 
exile." 

"Who  is  the  Man  of  Genius?'^  asked  Ambrose,  suddenly 
turning  to  Damaris,  while  the  doctor  prepared  for  a  new 
game. 

Slowly  the  colour  rose  in  Damaris  Westaway's  face,  till 
it  flooded  her  very  neck.  As  her  eyes  fell  before  Ambrose's 
glance,  he  read  the  secret,  while  Thyrza  watched  the  two, 
and  twisted  her  hands  under  cover  of  the  tablecloth.  But 
Damaris  soon  recovered  her  self-possession. 

"He  never  had  your  good  fortune,"  she  said,  "but  I've 
put  in  a  number  of  things  that  you  told  me.  Even  the 
story  about  the  old  woman  who  wanted  to  know  if  the  bees 
were  ear-marked  that  you  claimed  as  yours.  But  I  don't 
think  I  have  the  real  artist's  instinct.  I  suppose  you  think 
now  of  nothing  but  your  buildings,  and  when  you  come  to 
die  you  will  feel  that  your  life  has  not  been  wasted,  if  you 
have  added  to  the  beauty  of  the  world.  Now  I  can't  feel 
that.  I  want  to  be  able  to  put  my  hand  on  some  human 
thing  that  is  the  better  for  me.  That's  why  my  father's  work 
is  the  most  precious  thing  I  have.  The  doctor  and  I  are 
going  to  supplement  it  down  here,  you  know." 

"Well,  I  must  confess  that  I  feel  the  world  would  get 


One  Way  of  Love  349 

along  very  well  without  my  tinkering  at  it,"  answered 
Ambrose. 

The  artist  is  the  last  man  in  the  worid  to  understand 
that  vision  of  a  better  worid  which  forms  the  joy  of  public 
work.  For  to  the  artistic  mind  the  uplift  of  the  spirit 
which  we  seek  in  any  widening  of  the  horizon  of  our  per- 
sonal sympathies  comes  in  the  form  of  every  day  labour. 
But  by  other  men  the  vision  of  the  larger  work  of  the 
world  must  be  sought  outside  their  profession. 

"It  was  the  sorrow  of  my  father's  peculiar  convictions," 
said  Damaris,  "that  he  seemed  to  stand  aside  from  the 
great  current  of  life.  I  will  not  do  so,  although  I  have  no 
family  ties.  I  can  have  no  children  of  my  body,  as  it  were, 
but  I  will  of  my  mind." 

Ail  ages  are  ages  of  transition,  but  the  fluctuations  of  our 
time  are  almost  more  vital  than  those  of  any  other;  for  this 
is  a  time  of  change  in  the  way  men  regard  their  work,  the 
boots  they  make,  the  hous-^s  they  build,  the  ships,  of  state 
or  of  merchandise,  which  they  steer.  In  the  periods  when 
private  work  was  well  done,  every  man's  share  of  the 
world's  task  was  just  the  little  job  he  lived  by,  and  the 
cobbler  stuck  to  his  last.  Now,  more  and  more,  the  honesty 
of  plain  craftsmanship  is  despised;  for  on  all  men  has  come 
the  vision  of  the  larger  work  of  the  world,  from  the  ideal  of 
privilege  dethroned  in  favour  of  justice,  down  to  the  ques- 
tions of  public  parks  and  water  supplies.  Hence  the 
cobbler  is  abroad  tub-thumping,  when  he  ought  to  be  at 
home  hammering  honest  patches  on  his  shoes  whereby  to 
keep  out  the  mud.  And  to  women,  who  often  have  no 
private  work,  the  larger  vision  of  pubHc  work  comes  with 
regenerating  force,  for  they  are  not  bound  by  the  profes- 
sional specialism  of  men,  and  all  their  human  bias  is 
towards  the  greater  future  which  dwells  in  childward-Iook- 
ing  thoughts.     At  present  they  may  plead  outside  closed 


350  A  Man  of  Genius 

doors,  yet  in  their  hands  is  much  of  the  higher  future  of  the 
world. 

"I  like  you  when  you  talk  like  that,"  said  Ambrose; 
"you  look  like  a  Valkyrie,  a  shield-maiden.  Let  me  read 
the  book  to-night,  for  if  it  resembles  you  at  the  present 
moment  it  must  be  like  burnished  steel." 

When  Thyrza  went  upstairs  to  the  solar  that  Damaris  had 
made  the  gues1«-chamber,  the  bright  fire,  the  pink  quilt,  the 
nestling  warmth  of  the  room  seemed  a  mockery  to  her 
agony  of  jealousy.  She  could  have  torn  the  quilt  in  rags 
and  scattered  the  fire  over  the  room.  They  had  been  in 
the  house  but  two  days,  yet  her  brain  was  full  of  seething 
annoyances.  The  very  first  night,  as  they  went  down  to 
dinner,  Ambrose  glanced  at  her,  saying — 

*'You  should  get  Miss  Westaway  to  give  you  some  hints 
on  dressing,  Thyrza." 

She  could  hardly  see  the  flowers  on  the  table  that  evening 
for  tears,  as  she  sat  longing  for  the  homely  room  in  Bide- 
ford  where  Mrs.  Velly  sat.  Never  before  had  she  seen 
Ambrose  so  gaily  confident  as  he  was  that  night;  the  very 
buoyancy  of  his  walk  was  an  offence.  She  afterwards 
lay  sobbing  softly  for  hours,  while  Ambrose  slept  peace- 
fully. 

Late  at  night  he  was  sitting  alone  in  the  hall.  At  length 
he  turned  the  last  of  the  proof  sheets,  and  getting  up  threw 
a  fresh  log  on  the  fire.  Though  no  critic  he  recognised 
the  pecuHar  quaHty  of  Damaris  Westaway's  work,  its 
insistence  on  the  movement  of  life,  on  its  changing  lights 
and  shadows.  Just  as  colours  in  the  plein  air  school 
of  painting  shift  and  wane  on  the  sohd  shapes  of  the  land- 
scape, so  the  characters  of  A  Man  of  Genius  shone  through 
varying  Hghts,  unlike  the  soHd  entities  of  the  Victorian 
novelists. 

Yet  the  book  pierced  deeper  far,  for  it  was  the  story  of 


One  Way  of  Love  351 

Damans  Westaway's  heart.  Instinct  in  ever}'  line  was  the 
spirit  of  his  own  life;  nothing  was  forgotten  that  had  ever 
happened  between  them,  thought  after  thought  that  they 
had  shared  together  was  there.  In  the  story  of  struggle 
that  was  told  in  the  book,  he  read  why  Tonacombe  had 
passed  into  Miss  Westaway's  hands.  So  he  was  all  this  to 
a  woman  great  in  sympathy  and  insight:  at  the  know- 
ledge his  vanity  and  self-love  shrivelled  up  like  a  pigmy 
passion.  He  sat  for  a  moment,  seeing  the  thing  that 
was — and  the  thing  that  might  have  been;  it  was 
impossible  for  him  in  that  moment  to  escape  the  last 
picture. 

Suddenly  looking  up,  his  eyes  caught  the  glimmer  of 
something  white  against  the  darkness  of  the  portiere. 
There  was  the  other  picture,  the  thing  that  was:  Thyrza, 
in  her  long  white  dress,  with  her  arms  tightly  strained 
in  front  of  her.  The  very  sight  of  the  abandon  of  her 
dress  and  attitude  was  an  annoyance.  But  he  tried  to  be 
kind. 

"Why  are  you  standing  there  in  the  draught?"  he 
asked,  taking  her  arm  and  leading  her  to  the  fire.  "And 
why  aren't  you  asleep?" 

"I've  been  waiting  for  you,  crying  for  you  so,  dear,"  she 
whispered,  "and  that,"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  manu- 
script, "is  all  about  you,  I  know  it  is." 

"Cultivate  your  sense  of  humour,  my  child,"  said  he. 

"I  don't  know  what  that  is." 

"No,  faith,  you  don't.  Neither  do  I,  sometimes,  and 
that's  what  plays  the  deuce  with  us  both.  Anyhow,  every 
soul  on  this  planet  isn't  busied  solely  with  thoughts  of 
me." 

"Her  soul  is,"  said  Thyrza  defiantly.  "I  know  that. 
Oh,  Ambrose  don't  put  me  away  from  you." 

"My  dear,  how  could  I  put  my  basil  plant  away?"  he 


352  A  Man  of  Genius 

said  smiling.  ''I  couldn't,  you  know,  for  a  basil  plant 
feeds  on  a  murdered  man's  brains  till  he  becomes  a  part 
of  it." 

The  next  moment  his  heart  smote  him,  for,  recondite  as 
the  allusion  would  have  been  to  Thyrza  in  a  less  illuminating 
moment,  he  saw  that  she  understood. 

''There,  child,"  said  he  wearily,  ''you  must  be  a  more 
considerate  woman,  if  you  can't  be  a  rational  one.  For 
such  feelings  as  these  are  absurd — in  both  of  us." 

This  time  she  did  not  understand  his  allusion,  fortunately 
for  herself. 

Fretted  and  fevered  with  a  jealousy  that  nothing  could 
soothe,  Thyrza  dragged  out  the  weary  hours  of  the  follow- 
ing day,  till  at  last,  giving  the  excuse  of  a  very  real  headache, 
she  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  At  the  top  of  the  staircase 
she  paused  with  her  hand  on  the  rail.  Through  the  window- 
panes  opposite  she  could  see  the  waving  branches  of  the 
old  fuchsia-tree  in  the  Pleasaunce.  She  had  left  Ambrose 
alone  with  his  hostess  in  the  hall,  and  this  was  to  be  the 
last  day  of  their  stay  at  Tonacombe.  The  two  thoughts 
were  closely  connected  in  her  mind,  for  though  it  was  evil 
to  spy,  yet  her  doubt  was  unbearable. 

Stepping  cautiously  across  the  floor  of  her  bedroom,  she 
removed  the  blind  that  covered  the  arrow-slit  and  looked 
into  the  hall. 

There,  like  a  picture  set  in  a  frame,  she  saw  it;  the  fire- 
light staining  the  long,  narrow  windows  opposite  the  hearth, 
glittering  on  the  icicles  that  hung  from  the  ivy,  and  throwing 
patches  of  light  on  the  courtyard.  Inside  the  room,  the 
warmth  and  peace  of  the  great  fire  filled  the  air  with  the 
charm  of  summer.  Ambrose  stood  as  he  had  stood  the  night 
before,  gazing  down  at  Damaris  Westaway's  bowed  head. 
Outside  the  firelit  circle  were  the  mistakes  of  the  past 
or  these  two;   only  in  the  present  was  the  leaping  flame. 


One  Way  of  Love  353 

Thyrza  remembered  another  night  by  the  fire,  and  strained 
ever}'  nerve  in  the  effort  not  to  miss  a  word.  Her  ears 
gradually  adapted  themselves  to  the  work  they  were  called 
upon  to  do,  and  she  began  to  hear  distinctly. 

"I  know  why  you  bought  Tonacombe,  Princess,"  he  said 
quietly,  as  though  holding  himself  back. 

"Ah,  can  you  ever  forgive  me?"  cried  Damaris,  "for  I 
distrusted  you.  I  feared  for  you." 

"You  cared  so  much,  Damaris?" 

Her  head  sank  lower  as  he  went  on — 

"I  knew,  when  I  read  your  book  last  night  what  I  had 
missed." 

"No,  don't  say  that;  for  the  best  still  remains  to  us." 

"Ah,  Damaris,"  he  laughed,  "you  used  to  call  me  a 
disciple  of  Rabelais.  I'm  that  still,  I  suppose;  for  to  me 
the  best  is" — he  ])ent  fonvard  so  that  Thyrza  could  scarcely 
catch  his  words — "the  dear  comradeship  of  nights  and  days, 
the  trust  and  help,  the  glow  of  Hves  that  bum  in  one." 

Thyrza  laughed;  for  somewhere  in  the  past,  she,  too, 
had  heard  words  like  this.  So,  she  thought,  when  it  came 
to  the  last,  the  princess  and  the  beggar  woman  were  wooed 
alike. 

"You  made  me  marry  for  the  child's  sake." 

Then  Damaris  seemed  to  awake. 

"No,  Ambrose,  no,"  she  cried,  "but  for  the  sake  of  a 
woman  who  loves  you  with  every  fibre  of  her  true  heart. 
Loves  you,  yes,  a^  well  as  I  do." 

Slowly  the  room  was  darkening.  Then,  at  last  he  said 
steadily,  dropping  the  words  one  by  one  into  the  stillness. 

"Then  you  love  me?  It  is  true." 

Thyrza  was  quite  cold  and  still  now.  She  could  hear 
her  husband's  sneer  at  listeners;  knew  quite  well  the  code 
of  morality.  But  now  it  concerned  her  no  more  than  the 
fashion  of  the  night-dress  in  which  she  would  die. 

23 


354  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Yes,  Ambrose,"  said  Damans;  "all  these  months  and 
years  I've  been  learning  the  way  of  love." 

Thyrza  crouched  closer,  with  breaths  that  came  in  jerks. 

"My  darling!" 

"No;  not  as  you  think,  Ambrose.  The  way  of  love,  I 
said.  Real  love,  I  mean.  'Tis  the  way  of  love  to  bear  hard 
things,  to  watch,  to  grow  tired  in  the  service  of  another. 
The  sweetest  thing  in  all  the  world  is  to  do  the  tiniest  service 
for  one  that's  dear.  That's  why  I  bought  this  place,  be- 
cause I  would  have  you  stainless  in  honour.  It's  true,  I 
love  you.    I  would  say  it  before  Thyrza." 

They  were  standing  now,  and  she  placed  her  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"Why  was  I  fool  enough  to  wait  so  long?"  he  exclaimed, 
bhndly  misunderstanding  her. 

"Listen,"  said  Damaris,  while  Thyrza  felt  tears  that 
were  not  all  of  misery  start  to  her  eyes,  for  she  understood 
though  the  man  was  bhnd. 

"I  met  on  the  road  the  passion  that  you  dream  of,"  said 
Damaris,  "and  I  killed  it.  Now  I  can  go  without  the  love 
that  is  Thyrza's.  I  want  to  suffer  for  you.  Suffering  is  the 
only  passion  I  will  know." 

Only  the  sap  hissed  and  the  blood  coursed  in  the  veins 
of  three.  Thyrza  was  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  like  a 
woman  in  bodily  agony. 

"It  is  the  very  height  of  life,  that  you  refuse,"  said  Am- 
brose; "for  all  the  greatest  moments  of  life,  the  great 
creative  hours,  are  but  the  shadows  of  love's  delight." 

"And  I  tell  you  that  1  will  give  you  the  greatest  love. 
We  must  not  meet  again  in  the  flesh,  but  I  shall  be  always 
there,  in  your  greatest  work,  in  your  highest  thought.  I 
call  for  the  best  in  you,  Ambrose,  and  I  know  I  don't  call 
in  vain.  Give  me  up  and  I  shall  be  part  of  the  glory  of  the 
world  to  you.    The  greatest  thing  in  you  is  your  love  of 


One  Way  of  Love  ^r r 

beauty.  Let  me  be  part  of  it,  for  you.  If  it  came  t6  pass 
that  we — fell,  I  should  feel  that  both  you  and  I  were  creatures 
in  filthy  dress  crawling  into  the  banquet  hall  of  a  king.  She 
will  give  you  little  children,"  her  voice  broke  for  a  moment, 
'*  but  I  will  give  you  the  great  deed  she  cannot.  I  will  have 
nothing  but  the  highest  from  you. 

*'You  shall  have  it,"  he  said  after  a  long  silence. 

Thus  they  shared  the  high  joy  that  is  the  heart  of  agony. 

As  Ambrose  left  the  hall,  swinging  the  door  into  the 
outer  passage  behind  him,  Thyrza  sank  down  on  the  floor 
of  her  room.  The  world  had  grown  cold  to  her,  like  a 
dead  planet  to  the  last  man  left  alive  on  it.  Yet  in  the 
darkness  one  phrase  sank  deep,  it  was:  ''I  will  give  you  the 
great  deed  she  cannot." 

Thyrza  almost  smiled  at  the  certainty  that  rang  in  the 
words,  for  Damaris  was  so  sure  that  the  mean  woman  for 
whom  they  stood  apart  could  not  share  the  greatness  of 
renunciation. 

Then,  hastily  scrambling  to  her  feet,  she  tore  off  her 
dress  and  put  on,  instead,  a  shabby  grey  frock,  with  an  old 
black  hat  and  ulster.  Her  inheritance  stood  her  in  good 
stead  now,  for  she  was  dressing  for  the  open  road  that  led 
away  from  the  old  dark  house  of  memories. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  FLIGHT  OF  A  SEAMEW 

FLITTING  like  a  shadow  down  the  staircase  and  from 
the  Pleasaunce  to  the  avenue,  Thyrza  stood  between 
the  eagles  on  the  gate-posts  for  a  moment,  looking  back  as 
she  recalled  the  night  of  their  arrival,  when  Damans  had 
come  down  "the  street"  to  meet  them.  Somewhere  in  the 
midst  of  the  walled  paradise  strewn  with  ash  of  hoar  frost 
and  filmy  with  floating  clouds  overhead,  there  were  words 
whose  echoes  were  ringing  still.  But  everything  came 
deadened  to  Thyrza's  senses  now,  for  mortal  injury  of  body 
or  mind  is  often  painless. 

On  the  ice  of  the  slippery  meadow-path  she  fell  as  she 
climbed  to  the  ancient  Bush  Inn,  its  thatch  a  glitter  of 
frost.  Her  way  lay  across  the  churchyard,  but  ghostly 
terrors  had  no  meaning  now,  and  in  the  dusk  she  walked 
as  steadily  down  the  graveyard  path  as  between  the  trees  of 
the  valley  that  leads  to  the  sea.  At  the  mouth  of  the  combe, 
where  the  stream  falls  over  a  lip  of  rock,  she  lay  down  and 
flung  the  bundle  of  outdoor  clothes  that  she  carried  on  to 
the  rocks  below,  where  the  tide  would  wash  them  against 
the  toothed  escarpment  at  the  foot  of  Hennacliff. 

Then  she  turned  away  inland.  In  the  stillness  she  could 
trace  all  along  the  coast  the  echoing  note  of  every  wave 
that  broke  on  the  rocks,  until  at  length  the  sea  murmurs 
lengthened  into  the  faint  stir  of  leafless  tree-branches.  As 
hill  and  level  passed  and  repassed,  weighted  lead  instead 
356 


The  Flight  of  a  Seamew  357 

of  fibre  and  muscle,  seemed  to  fill  her  limbs,  till  she  felt 
the  weariness  that  eats  into  the  eye-sockets  like  a  canker. 
At  last  she  came  to  a  wood-stack  by  the  side  of  a  field,  with 
behind  it  a  hay-mow  where  great  ledges  had  been  left  in 
the  cutting.  Into  this  she  climbed,  and  wrapjMng  herself 
in  wisps  torn  from  the  side,  fell  asleep,  like  a  mouse  in  a 
sweet-scented  cranny. 

Thyrza  awoke  at  last  to  the  stars  that  paled  before  the 
dawn,  and  numbed  now  in  feet  and  hands,  she  trudged  on, 
steadily  setting  before  herself  a  fixed  purpose  to  reach  Brad- 
worthy,  where  by  now  little  Ambrose  would  be  staying 
with  Chrissie  Rosevear,  whilst  Mrs.  Velly  began  the  prep- 
arations for  the  removal  from  Bideford. 

The  air  was  full  now  of  the  cold  of  coming  snow.  Yet 
sunrise  was  near,  and  presently  a  robin  hopped  in  the 
withered  hedge,  as  the  red  eye  of  the  sun  peered  through 
the  russet  leaves  of  the  hazel  bushes.  Pausing  on  the  brow 
of  a  hill,  between  two  pine  trees  that  stretched  out  skinny 
arms,  red  and  tanned  like  the  limbs  of  two  old  hags,  Thyrza 
began  to  pick  sticks  from  the  hedge  for  a  fire.  Over  the 
east  a  tawny  smear  of  mist,  like  the  smoke  of  a  furnace, 
was  staining  the  frost;  blue  in  the  west  lay  a  world  of  folded 
hills.  Over  in  Bradworthy  Chrissie  would  be  bathing  the 
boy:  Thyrza  remembered  it  as  she  glanced  from  her  own 
grimed  hands  to  the  leaden  glitter  of  ice  in  the  gutter. 

As  she  took  to  the  road  again  there  came  the  first  snow- 
flakes,  and  before  long  the  ways  were  thick  in  soft  layers 
that  blotted  out  all  footprints  almost  as  soon  as  they  were 
traced.  In  a  drift  of  vapoury  snow  the  past  was  forgotten, 
as  the  grey  shadows  closed  round  the  solitary  figure.  She 
wandered  many  times  out  of  her  way,  for  the  farmhouses, 
at  which  she  halted  twice  to  get  a  meal,  were  at  long  dis- 
tances apart.  Once  she  got  a  lift  in  a  baker's  cart.  But 
for  the  most  part  there  was  nothing  but  deep-cut  lanes, 


358  A  Man  of  Genius 

where  ice-sheathed  branches  closed  overhead,  alternating 
with  open  country  that  seethed  with  flickering  snowflakes. 
Only  the  wind  murmured  of  the  road  and  the  steady  tread 
of  dogged  feet  through  the  silken  whisper  of  the  faUing 
snow.  Past  and  present  had  vanished  now  in  sheer  weari- 
ness. 

When  at  last  she  reached  Bradworthy,  every  roof  was  a 
weighted  mass  of  snow.  She  knocked  again  and  again  on 
the  door  of  Chrissie's  darkened  house,  but  no  answer  came. 
This  rebuff  awoke  her  fully,  for  now  it  seemed  that  the 
whole  universe  was  the  enemy  of  Thyrza  Velly.  She  felt 
as  a  lad  feels  when  a  full-grown  man  strikes  him  across 
the  face. 

"I'll  not  die,"  she  cried;  "I'll  not  be  flung  away." 

At  last,  within,  Mrs.  Rosevear  half  turned  at  the  sound 
of  the  loud  hammering. 

"Chrissie,  whatever  can  it  be?"  said  John. 

Wide  awake  she  started  up,  and  before  his  slower  wits 
had  moved  was  leaning  out  of  the  bedroom  window. 

"It's  me,  Thyrza,"  said  the  snow-covered  figure  out- 
side. 

In  a  moment  Chrissie  was  downstairs  unbolting  the 
door. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?"  cried  John,  as  he  followed, 
his  nightcap  "pointing"  like  a  dog  at  his  shadow  that 
danced  on  the  wall  in  the  light  of  the  candle. 

"It's  the  dead  come  back,  I  reckon,"  snapped  Mrs.  Rose- 
vear, even  in  that  moment  of  excitement  enjoying  the 
quiver  she  produced  in  her  husband.  When  at  last  they 
got  the  door  open,  she  half  carried  Thyrza  across  the  room 
to  the  armchair,  exclaiming — 

"There  now,  I  know  it  aU.  They  was  here  this  afternoon 
to  look  for  'ee." 

"You'll  not  give  me  up,  Chrissie?" 


The  Flight  of  a  Seamew  359 

"Not  if  you  don't  want  to  go  back,"  said  she,  unfasten- 
ing Thyrza's  sodden  shoes,  while  John  stirred  the  embers 
into  a  blaze,  his  honest  face  a  mask  of  perplexity  at  these 
untoward  happeninjj^s. 

"What  do  they  think?"  asked  Thyrza.  "Did  you  see 
Ambrose?" 

"They  believe  you'm  dead.  No,  he  didn't  come.  He'd 
gone  to  Bideford.  Oh,  Thyrza,  whatever  is  all  this  stour 
about?" 

Thyrza  had  lost  her  way  several  times;  it  was  owing  to 
this  fact  that  she  had  not  been  overtaken. 

"I'm  not  the  wife  of  'en.    She  is." 

"Wild  words,  check!.  You'll  have  to  go  back  to  'en. 
If  the  truth  was  known,  you're  longing  to  be  back  now." 

"Chrissie,"  said  Thyrza,  standing  up,  "if  you  don't  give 
me  your  sacre<i  word  of  honour  that  you'll  never  tell  him 
I've  been  here,  I  shall  go  straight  away  this  minute.  I'm 
naught  to  Ambrose,  but  the  thing  that's  spoiling  his  life. 
She's  ever^'thing  to  'en." 

"I'll  warn  he  thinks  so,"  snapped  Chrissie,  "and  afore 
he's  clay-cold  he'll  think  the  same  of  a  dozen  more.  'Tis  a 
man's  nature  to,  for  they  can't  none  of  'em  keep  more'n 
half  an  eye  off  the  maidens.  But,  Lord,  what's  that,  when 
you  can  always  make  a  bed  of  thorns  for  'en  night  times. 
I'll  warrant,  if  'twas  me,  I'd  give  'en  what  for.  Who's  the 
maid?" 

"Miss  Westaway,"  said  Thyrza  curtly. 

"And  that  I'll  never  believe,"  cried  Chrissie;  "and 
you'm  a  downright  little  trollop  to  think  such  a  thing." 

"Oh,  she  talked  about  giving  'en  up,  as  if  there  was 
nobody  else  in  the  world  that  could  do  that,"  answered 
Thyrza  proudly. 

This  was  overdeep  water  for  Chrissie,  so  she  changed 
the  subject. 


360  A  Man  of  Genius 

"Your  cheeld's  here  now,"  said  she;  "he's  upstairs  a- 
bed." 

"Oh,  Chrissie,  let  me  go  to  'en,  there's  a  dear." 

"No,  no,  you'll  frighten  the  Pile  soul  into  fits  if  you  go 
up  same  as  you  be  now.  Wait  till  you've  had  a  sup  of 
something  hot." 

"No,  Chrissie,  let  me  go,"  she  sobbed,  as  the  good 
woman  would  have  held  her  back.  "Let  me  have  'en.  I 
won't  frighten  'en.  I've  been  longing  for  'en  all  day.  He's 
all  I've  got  in  the  worid  now." 

"Let  her  go,  woman,"  said  John  sternly;  "don't  keep 
her  back  from  her  cheeld.    Show  her  where  the  I'ile  chap  is." 

And  Chrissie,  awestricken  for  once  at  her  man's  hand- 
ling of  the  reins,  led  the  way  upstairs.  Opening  the  door 
of  the  boy's  room,  she  whispered — 

"There  he  is." 

In  the  midst  of  a  billowy  wave  of  feathers  there  was 
a  slight  depression,  with  hummocks  on  either  side  and 
a  dint  on  the  pillow,  where  a  shadow  appeared. 

Half  an  hour  later  Chrissie  came  in  with  a  tray.  Then 
she  exclaimed,  for  there  lay  Thyrza  with  the  child's  body 
across  her  own.  He  was  still  sound  asleep,  for  she  had 
managed  to  drag  herself  under  him,  without  arousing  him 
to  more  than  a  sleepy  whimper.  His  body  lay  across  her 
bare  breast,  and  the  healing  streams  of  tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks. 

"I  didn't  wake  'en,"  she  whispered.  "But,  oh,  Chrissie, 
I've  ached  for  this  all  the  day,  to  feel  his  weight  again." 
Then,  as  Chrissie  held  the  tea  to  her  lips,  she  said,  "His 
father  doesn't  want  me.  But  I'm  his  woman,  for  he  gave 
me  this." 

She  fell  suddenly  asleep,  while  Chrissie  stood  watching 
with  the  empty  cup  in  her  hand.  The  child  wriggled 
closer  to  the  warmth,  and  in  sleep  the  mother  smiled. 


The  Flight  ot  a  Seamew  361 

WTien  she  got  downstairs  Mrs.  Rosevear's  face  was  a 
sat)T's,  for  she  was  forcing  back  the  tears  in  a  steady 
grimace. 

"What  a  poor  wambling  mortal  you  be,  John,"  she 
snapped.  "What's  the  use  of  your  staying  up?  You'll 
be  a  reg'lar  zany  to-morrow,  \\-ith  all  your  eyes  screwed  up 
for  want  of  sleep." 

Then  she  broke  down. 

"She's  not  wanted,  John,  she's  not  wanted;  and  I'm 
sore  af eared  of  what's  coming  to  the  poor  soul." 

''Ay,"  said  John,  "when  a  wife  leaves  her  man,  'tis 
prett}'  nigh  as  bad  as  death  or  making  a  hole  in  the  water, 
for  life  closes  over  her  prett>-  nigh  afore  she's  touched 
bottom." 

The  next  day  Th\Tza  came  downstairs  and  quiedy 
announced  that  she  was  going  on  to  Bideford  to  help  Mrs. 
Velly.  She  was  quite  calm  now,  but  her  farewell  to  the 
child  was  said  upstairs,  away  irom  the  presence  of  wit- 
nesses, as  Chrissie  aftensards  remembered.  At  the  inn 
she  hired  a  trap  and  was  rapidly  driven  along  the  Bideford 
Road,  while  Chrissie  stood  for  a  long  while  watching  the 
dog-cart  disappear  in  the  distance.  Had  Th\Tza  departed 
as  she  had  come,  on  foot  and  bedraggled,  Chrissie  would 
have  tried  to  prevent  her  lea\ing,  but  in  her  quiet  assurance 
and,  above  all,  in  her  possession  of  money  for  the  drive, 
there  was  a  certain  aspect  of  power  that  overawed  the  good 
woman. 

At  last  ThNTza  stood  at  the  coastguard  point  of  Apple- 
dore.  The  wind  had  changed  in  the  night,  and  over  sea 
and  sky  floated  the  delicate  mist,  half  cloud,  half  veil  of 
glor}'  that  scuds  before  a  sou'-wester,  here  rent  into  patches 
that  showed  the  blue,  there  massed  into  mountains  of 
cloud.  At  the  river  mouth  a  luminous  mist  against  the 
sky-line  marked  the  spray  of  the  bar;   curling  tongues  of 


362  A  Man  of  Genius 

breakers  rolled  up  the  river  between  the  sand-banks  and 
the  quay,  and  up  the  tideway  dashed  a  race  of  waters, 
tearing  to  fill  ''the  guts"  and  embed  the  gravel  flats  that 
at  low  tide  lie  like  huge  dank  slugs  in  the  river-bed.  Behind 
the  lighthouse  on  the  dunes  facing  Appledore  itself  shone 
a  tawny  bed  of  sand,  desert-like  and  sunscorched  against 
the  blue  of  the  estuary. 

The  life  that  was  in  some  sort  her  own,  the  life  of  the 
sea,  had  engulfed  Thyrza's  brain;  she  felt  no  pain  now,  as 
she  retraced  her  steps  to  an  inlet  of  the  beach  where  she 
could  remain  till  the  evening.  In  front  of  her  was  the 
workshop  of  a  firm  of  ship-breakers,  deserted  by  the  men 
at  high  tide.  Against  the  lines  of  sea  and  sand  the  ribs 
of  a  wooden  hulk  projected  from  the  water,  like  the  fin 
of  a  mastodon.  Next  to  it  towered  the  black  promontory 
of  a  vessel  only  recently  moored  there  for  its  execution. 
The  beach  behind  was  heaped  with  spars  of  salted  timber 
and  iron  fittings  that  shone  with  the  red  leprosy  of  briny 
rust.  The  place  was  a  ships'  charnel-house,  hideous  with 
ruin  and  ominous  with  the  powers  of  destruction,  for  to 
these  vessels  the  death  that  came  not  by  wave  or  sand- 
bank was  inevitable  at  the  hands  of  man. 

As  the  sun  set,  in  the  stillness  there  came  the  song  of 
a  robin.  Persistently,  gaily  he  piped,  balanced  on  the  edge 
of  a  companion  ladder,  singing  of  the  joys  of  nesting  time 
amid  these  ugly  memories  of  the  sea-horror.  On  and  on 
he  trilled  against  the  black  shadows  of  the  ships. 

Over  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  Torridge,  John  Darracott 
sat  in  the  door  of  the  deserted  boathouse  where  he  lived, 
mending  a  salmon  net  that  trailed  on  the  sand  in  front  of 
him.  For  next  May  he  would  be  among  the  toiling  figures 
that  haul  the  heavy  meshes  over  the  dunes  by  the  Hght- 
house. 

The  sand  deadened  Thyrza's  footsteps,  and  the  hum- 


The  Flight  of  a  Seamew  363 

mocky  mounds  of  bent  grass  over  which  she  had  to  pass 
hid  her  figure  till  she  came  quite  close  to  him. 

Then  she  cried,   "John,   John,   I've  come  to   'ee." 

As  he  started  to  his  feet,  the  roar  of  the  pebble  ridge 
receded  to  a  far  distance,  and  the  hiss  of  spray  on  the  bar 
was  stilled  in  the  ears  of  the  two.  Then,  as  Darracott  was 
still  silent,  Thyrza  moved  closer,  holding  out  her  hands — 

''Take  me  in,  John,"  she  whispered,  "for  I've  nowhere 
else  to  go." 

He  led  her  into  the  boathouse.  The  ground  floor,  lit  by 
one  dim  window,  was  cobbled  with  pebbles  and  stacked 
with  logs  of  wreckwood.  At  one  end  a  ladder  led  to  an 
upper  story. 

"Can  'ee  get  up  this,  my  dear?"  he  asked,  seeing  her  to 
be  half  fainting. 

"Yes,  John,  in  a  minute,"  she  whispered. 

But  he  would  not  wait,  and  lifting  her  like  a  child  he  car- 
ried her  up  the  ladder  into  a  long,  low  room  that  looked 
on  the  sea.  Here  the  old  furniture  brought  back  Hartland 
Quay,  and  as  he  laid  her  on  a  wooden  bunk  against  the 
wall  she  felt  herself  in  safe  harbourage  at  last. 

Presently  she  was  lifted  by  a  hand  that  fitted  cleverly 
into  the  curves  of  her  head,  and  a  cup  of  tea,  was  held  to 
her  lips. 

"I'll  be  better  in  a  minute,"  she  said,  as  he  gave  her 
more  with  bits  of  bread  soaked  in  it. 

Darracott  stood  looking  at  her  with  infinite  tenderness 
while  she  lay  with  closed  eyes.  Then  he  turned  away,  as 
though  to  watch  her  resting  was  a  sort  of  liberty.  It  was 
wonderful  how  quietly  he  managed  to  move  about  the 
room. 

At  last  Thyrza  roused  herself,  and  standing  up  came 
over  to  the  hearth  chair.  With  a  stricture  of  heart  John 
remembered  how  many  hundreds  of  times  he  had  pictured 


364  A  Man  of  Genius 

her  sitting  there.  It  was  all  complete  now,  even  to  the 
"yellow  dog"  of  no  special  breed  who  licked  her  fingers 
with  his  long  red  tongue. 

"Thyrza,"  said  Darracott  at  last,  "can  'ee  tell  me  what's 
the  matter?  Or  if  you'd  rather  not,  we'll  let  it  bide  till 
you'm  better." 

She  felt  his  anxiety  under  the  quiet  tones  he  had  pur- 
posely assumed. 

"I  came  from  terrible  things,  John,"  she  said,  looking 
at  him  pitifully. 

How  was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  that  Thyrza, 
the  wife  of  a  man  who  loved  her,  could  know  anything 
of  "terrible  things."  Darracott  knew  a  great  deal  of  the 
cruelty  that  Hves  in  sordid  alleys  beneath  the  blackened 
roofs  and  patched  slates  of  a  fishing  town,  for  across  the 
gleaming  splendour  of  the  estuary,  ill-houses  flourished, 
where  every  room  was  a  dumb  horror.  He  knew  one 
indeed,  where  maids  were  drugged,  and  from  which  one 
girl  had  fled  to  the  outstretched  arms  of  the  clean  sea.  Yet 
such  could  not  be  Thyrza's  story. 

"Tell  me,"  he  cried,  "tell  me,  as  if  I  was  your  own 
brother,  for  there  isn't  anything  as  you  couldn't  say  to  me, 
my  dear.  And  if  there's  any  help  that  can  be  given,  by 
God,  you  shall  have  it." 

"John,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hands,  "it's  all  been 
took  from  me.  I've  no  man,  no  child,  no  home.  Will  'ee 
take  me,  for  I  do  belong  to  you?" 

"Thyrza,"  he  cried,  touching  her  head  gently  as  she 
leant  on  his  arm,  "you  don't  know  what  you'm  saying. 
Will  I  take  you?    Oh,  my  maid,  my  maid!" 

Then  she  pushed  him  away,  and  speaking  mere  col- 
lectedly, tried  hard  to  arrange  her  thoughts. 

"I  found  out  on  the  road  to-day  where  you  lived,  but  I 
always  meant  to  come  to  you  from    the  first.      There's 


The  Flight  of  a  Seamew  365 

nowhere  else  for  me  to  go,  for  they'd  all  give  me  up  to  him. 
'Twas  you  that  married  me  to  him;   but  I  won't  go  back." 

''What  has  he  done,  Thyrza?" 

"He  wants  another  woman.  It's  Damaris  Westaway 
that  he  would  have  married,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you." 

''I'll  not  believe  any  evil  of  her,"  said  Darracott  sternly. 
"She's  not  one  as  would    come  between  man  and  wife." 

"Oh,"  cried  Th}Tza  trembling,  "they  both  think  I've 
spoiled  his  life.  I  heard  'em.  I  heard  every  word.  I  never 
was  the  woman  for  him.     John,  will  'ee  take  me?" 

"You've  a  child,"  said  John  quietly,  after  a  moment's 
pause.  In  the  stillness  she  could  hear  his  laboured 
breathing. 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

"The  law  would  give  it  to  him,  if  you  was  to  come  to 
me  hke  this.     Could  'ee  bear  that?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  good  enough  to  care  for  a  child,  you 
mean;  that's  what  they'd  think.  Not  my  own  child? 
Surely,  they  wouldn't  take  it  from  me?  It's  mine;  I  bore 
it.     And  you'd  take  it,  I  know." 

"That's  the  law." 

"I  should  hurt  'en,  you  mean.  I  shouldn't  be  a  good 
woman,  then,  that  could  teach  a  child  good.  John,  I'm 
not  that  now;  for  he  had  to  marry  me  ...  to  save  my  good 
name." 

She  had  suffered  before,  but  never  as  she  did  now,  when 
•she  glanced  for  a  second  at  his  face. 

"Nothing'll  ever  change  'ee  to  me,"  he  said  at  length; 
"nothing,  not  the  ven'  smoke  of  the  pit.  You'm  always 
Thyrza  to  me — the  little  maid  that  come  down  beside  me 
into  the  very  depths." 

"Then  you'll  take  me?     For  you  qo  love  me  true." 

"No;  I'll  not  do  'ee  this  harm.  What  would  it  be  like 
when  you  turned  on  me  as  the  man  who  made  'ee  forget 


366  A  Man  of  Genius 

all  that's  good?  For  I  should  have  robbed  'ee  of  every- 
thing— child,  honesty,  all.  Even  the  man  you  care  for 
still;  for  you  love  'en  still.    Don't  'ee,  my  dear?" 

'*Iss,  John,  somewhere  I  do.  He  loved  me  tender  once, 
and  he  gave  me  the  child." 

"Ay,  lass,"  he  said  bitterly,  '"twas  a'most  vs^orse  than 
a  base  born  child  would  have  been,  to  come  to  me,  with 
him  in  your  heart  all  the  time." 

"But  what  can  I  do,  John?"  she  asked  humbly. 

"  Bide  here  till  the  heart  comes  back  to  'ee.  I'm  a  marked 
man,  so  there's  not  a  soul  that  ever  comes  into  this  place. 
You  may  rest  quiet  here  for  months;  and  there's  no  need 
for  anybody  to  know  you'm  here,  not  if  you'm  careful. 
'Twill  give  'ee  time  to  find  your  bearings." 

"But  you,  John?    I  can't  turn  you  out." 

"I'm  to  work  all  day  over  on  the  banks,  and  night-times 
I  can  easy  sling  a  hammock  below.  You'll  put  me  out  no 
more  than  the  old  yellow  dog  that  come  limping  across  the 
flats  last  summer.  Beaten  and  starved  he'd  been,  but  he's 
got  a  home  now." 

To  his  simple  straightforwardness  they  were  both  ship- 
wrecked, with  the  yellow  dog  for  company,  and  she  no 
more  shrank  from  his  offer  than  she  would  have  from  his 
help  on  a  desert  island. 

"That's  right,  my  dear,"  he  said  cheerfully,  as  he  saw 
her  look  of  acquiescence.  "And  now,  when  I  come  home 
night-times,  there'll  be  a  bright  fire  waiting  for  me,  I 
know." 

The  existence  of  a  love  like  Darracott's  is  hke  a  bursting 
ray,  a  light  from  a  leaden  sky,  giving  promise  of  that  golden 
sun  of  blessing  that  still  shines  beyond  the  storms  of  this 
rude  world.  Yet,  in  his  hammock  that  night,  he  lay  gazing 
into  the  face  of  his  own  stern  honesty,  as  he  asked  himself 
whether  the  tide  would  ever  carry  Thyrza  into  safe  anchor- 


The  Flight  of  a  Seamew  367 

age;  for  she  panted  like  a  storm-driven  bird  that  had  dashed 
against  his  window,  and  in  his  hands  that  held  her  there 
was  an  answering  passion.  As  he  heard  her  sob  once  over- 
head, his  heart  swelled  with  a  love  that  it  took  all  his  strength 
to  conceal.  Yet  she  was  not  his,  and  in  her  helplessness 
less  his  than  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  JUDGMENT  OF  THE  NETHER  GODS 

"\TO,  no,"  cried  Damans,  startled  out  of  her  usual 
i\  composure,  "not  that,  not  that.  It  isn't  possible." 
She  had  been  schooling  herself  for  the  inevitable  evening 
that  must  be  spent  with  her  guests,  for  they  would  neces- 
sarily be  most  difficult  hours,  but  here,  in  Ambrose  Velly's 
curt  words,  there  leapt  at  her  a  horror  that  turned  the  cosy 
hall  into  a  torture  chamber. 

"But,"  persisted  Ambrose,  "the  shutter  of  the  solar's 
down  and  she — has  not  come  back.  I  must  get  the  farm 
men  to  search  the  cHffs.  I  will  tell  them  that  we  fear  Mrs. 
Velly  must  have  met  with  an  accident." 

Presently  she  heard  the  shouts  of  men  in  the  "streets," 
as  she  tried  to  realize  what  Thyrza  must  have  suffered,  and 
endeavoured  to  reconstruct  the  tragedy  of  these  last  hours. 
But  over  all  there  was  the  sense  of  unreality,  the  dream-like 
feeling  that  she  must  soon  awake.  Hastily  running  up- 
stairs to  the  minstrel  gallery,  and  thence  to  her  room,  she 
threw  on  a  cloak  and  hat.  For  to  wait  in  that  stillness  for 
what  might  be  happening  outside  was  impossible. 

Once  in  the  open  air  she  turned  towards  Greenway,  in 
which  direction  she  could  see  the  lanthoms  carried  by  the 
searchers.  As  her  footsteps  echoed  on  the  hard,  dry  road, 
Damaris  felt  as  though  she  were  walking  on  her  own  heart, 
for  the  place  was  filled  with  nothing  but  memories  of  these 
last  few  days,  and  it  was  with  these  memories  that  she 

368 


The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods  369 

must  live  henceforth.  In  the  moonlight  the  almost  phos- 
phorescent trunks  of  the  trees  round  the  ancient  fish-stews 
were  a  company  of  grey  ghosts.  Among  them  she  could 
see  Thyrza,  as  she  had  knelt  on  the  thick  mould  of  leaf 
castings  to  gaze  into  the  ponds,  then  brown-speckled  with 
dapplings  of  sunlight  and  shadow,  like  the  markings  of  a 
trout's  back.  In  the  opposite  field  she  had  leant  to  look 
into  the  well-house  and  listen  to  the  hidden  spring  that 
gurgled  in  its  depths.  And  now  Damans  could  see  her 
beating  on  weak  wings  against  the  hurricane,  a  life  for 
which  her  weakness  was  never  intended. 

At  last  she  turned  back  towards  the  house  again,  for  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  walk  the  cliffs,  as  Ambrose  and 
the  men  were  doing.  Pacing  up  and  down  *'the  street," 
she  waited,  till  at  length  there  came  the  noise  of  hurried 
footsteps.  It  was  a  farm-boy,  breathless  with  running, 
who  handed  her  a  page  torn  from  a  pocket-book,  with  the 
word  "Come,"  written  on  it  in  Ambrose  Velly's  hand. 

''They've  found  clothes  under  Hennacliff,"  said  the  boy, 
his  nostrils  quivering  with  his  breath. 

In  the  valley  by  the  church  Damaris  met  the  men  re- 
turning. Over  the  arm  of  one  hung  some  dark  garments, 
and  all  along  the  coast  came  the  lonely  moaning  of  the 
tide.  Yet  she  thought,  for  all  the  noise,  it  told  no  secret. 
Holding  a  lanthom  up,  Ambrose  asked  her  in  a  low  voice 
to  look  at  the  clothes. 

'*  Yes,  these  were  hers,"  she  said,  with  dazed  eyes,  as  she 
turned  them  over  on  the  man's  arm.  "Wait,"  she  said  as 
the  men  passed  up  the  narrow  path.  "Wait,  Ambrose, 
there's  something  I  must  say." 

The  undertone  of  the  water  below  the  rock  sounded 
thunderous,  as  they  stood  together  in  the  rapidly  increasing 
darkness. 

"It's  not  as  you  think,"  she  said  sharply,  "I'm  certain 
24 


370  A  Man  of  Genius  ! 

it's  not.     I've  a  woman's  instinct,  and  I  know  you  can    j 
trust  it."  I 

"It'll  be  in  on  the  ninth  day,  if  not  to-morrow,"  he  said  ; 
dully.  ] 

''She  never   drowned    herself,  Ambrose.     A  desperate    , 
woman  would  not  have  cast  off  her  clothes;  for  the  horror 
of  the  cold  would  have  made  her  keep  on  everything  she 
wore,  with  a  vague  sensation  of  warding  off  the  chill  of  the    i 
water.    I  know  it.    I've  sent  men  from  the  Bush  along  the    ' 
roads,  for  that's  where  she'll  be  found,  if  she  has  not  been 
gone  too  long  to  be  overtaken."  ; 

"God  bless  you,  Damaris."  i 

"Ah,  no,  for  'tis  I  who  brought  this  on  you.  I,  and  I  ^ 
only.  But  we  cannot  go  back  now,  and  to  wish  words  unsaid  ; 
is  futile.  Come  quickly  back  to  Tonacombe  and  see  what  i 
she  can  be  wearing."  | 

The  brisk  action  of  the  last  minutes  had  set  her  frozen 
blood  flowing,  her  paralysed  brain  working. 

Yet,  as  they  turned  out  the  wardrobe  in  the  solar,  even 
Damaris's  confidence  was  shaken,  for  there  appeared  to  be 
none  missing  of  all  the  dresses  they  had  seen  her  wear, 
except  the  garments  found  on  the  beach. 

"That  takes  away  the  last  hope,"  said  Ambrose.  "My 
God,  I'd  give  all  the  past  and  all  the  future  to  bring  her 
back.  The  future,  what's  that  to  me  now!" 

"No,  no;  there  must  have  been  other  clothes  that  we 
know  nothing  about,  Ambrose.  Go  to  your  mother  and 
find  out." 

As  he  rode  away,  after  one  hand-clasp  and  a  faltering 
good-bye,  Damaris  tasted  the  bitterness  of  self,  for  now  his 
ambitions,  his  love  for  herself,  were  nothing,  when  weighed 
in  the  balance  with  his  passionate  desire  to  make  amends 
to  Thyrza.  She  went  back  to  the  lonely  hall  to  sit  down  to 
write  Dr.  Dayman,  who  had  gone  to  London  the  previous  I 


The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods  371 

day.  With  a  stab  of  pain,  Damaris  remembered  that,  had 
he  only  put  off  his  visit  to  town  a  day  later  this  misery 
would  have  been  avoided.  For  with  the  old  man  bustling 
in  and  out,  intimate  conversation  would  have  been  im- 
possible. 

By  noon  next  day  every  coastguard  point  and  every 
j)ohce  station  had  received  notice  of  the  tragedy,  but  it  was 
evening  before  Ambrose  reached  Bideford,  and  turning  in 
from  the  snowy  street,  opened  the  door  of  his  house.  The 
sight  of  Mrs.  Vclly  ])lacidly  packing  china  in  great  cases 
unmanned  Ambrose  more  than  anything  that  had  gone 
before,  so  vivid  were  the  pictures  of  their  joint  life  that 
it  called  up.  Leaning  on  the  mantelpiece,  now  fagged  to 
the  uttermost  point  of  endurance,  he  told  his  tale  in  five 
curt  sentences. 

She  never  said  a  word,  but  pushing  him  into  a  chair, 
stood  softly  patting  his  shoulder,  as  she  had  done  hun- 
dreds of  times  in  his  childhood  at  some  fit  of  rage  or  im- 
patience. 

''She'd  never  have  stripped  herself,"  she  said  at  last, 
''with  the  real  death  agony  upon  her." 

"Ah,"  cried  Ambrose,  "that's  what  Miss  Westaway  said. 
But  there's  no  good  taking  comfort  in  that,  for  we  searched 
her  boxes,  and  there  was  nothing  missing  that  she  could 
have  worn." 

"You  don't  know  all  she  took  with  her,  Ambrose,  but 
I  do." 

Then,  after  a  moment's  consideration,  she  said,  "Was 
there  an  old  grey  tweed  in  the  box?  For  that's  what  she 
would  wear  to  walk  in  of  a  winter  night.  And  her  old 
♦  ulster  and  sailor  hat.  For  she  took  'em  specially  against 
any  cliff  cHmbing,  'though,'  says  she,  'I'll  hardly  dare  put 
'em  on,  so  grand  it'll  be  there.'" 

"Are  you  certain  she  took  those  clothes,  mother?"  said 


372  A  Man  of  Genius 

Ambrose,  starting,  ''for  I  know  the  ones  you  mean — and 
they  weren't  there." 

"Absolutely  certain.  But  come  upstairs  and  look  for 
yourself,  if  they're  there." 

With  a  fresh  spring  of  hope  in  his  heart,  Ambrose  wired 
particulars  to  the  police  stations,  but  next  morning  Thyrza 
drove  into  Bideford  in  clothes  that  Chrissie  had  lent  her. 

A  fortnight  later  a  dog-cart  that  splashed  the  pools  into 
flurries  of  mud  was  spinning  into  Hartland  by  the  Bideford 
road.  As  it  approached  the  village  the  sudden  glare  of 
fire  lit  up  the  faces  of  the  occupants,  Ambrose  Velly  and 
a  man  hired  at  Bideford. 

"There's  some  sort  of  a  randy  toward  by  the  look  of  it," 
said  the  driver,  "and  'tisn't  pancake  day  neither.  And  if 
'twas,  they've  long  given  up  going  round  begging  and 
throwing  shards  at  every  door  that  wouldn't  give.  I  can 
mind  going  round  as  a  boy  though,  shouting — 

*  Flish,  flash;  flish,  flash, 
Watter,  watter,  ling, 
Hev  'ee  any  pancakes? 
Plaze  to  let  us  in. 

'Have  'ee  any  best  beer? 
Have  'ee  any  small  ? 
Plaze  vor  give  us  some  then, 
Or  nothen  at  all.' " 

He  swung  his  head  in    time  to  the  measure. 

"Get  down,"  said  Ambrose,  "and  hold  the  horse's  head. 
The  place  has  gone  off  its  head  to-night." 

From  a  bush  of  gorse  that  projected  between  two  tar- 
barrels  sprang  a  hissing  spiral  of  sparks  and  flame.  The 
light  of  it  flashed  on  the  windows  of  the  King's  Head 
Hotel  and  on  the  blackened  face  of  the  man  who  was 
holding  the  torch  to  the  mass  of  logs  and  faggots  that 
stood  in  the  village  square.     Since  dusk  stealthy  figures 


The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods   373 

had  been  hurrying  to  and  fro  between  the  wood-pile  and 
the  hoards  secretly  stored  in  the  houses  and  Hnhays  of 
Hartland. 

At  the  signal  the  village  began  to  hum  like  a  hive  of 
bees,  while  from  the  darkness  of  the  fields  sounded  a  con- 
fused roar,  not  coming  in  flashes  hke  the  cheers  from  a 
football  field,  but  circhng  in  discordant  cacophony  over 
hedges  and  ditches.  It  was  apparently  wheeling  in  narrow- 
ing circles  closer  and  closer  to  the  huddle  of  houses  among 
the  trees.  As  it  approached,  the  roar  became  disintegrated 
into  the  separate  sounds  that  composed  it,  into  the  skirl  of 
mouth  organs,  the  hee-haws  of  the  human  jackass,  the 
blast  of  horns  and  the  rattle  of  tin  pans  and  biscuit-boxes 
loaded  with  stones.  Clear  above  all  was  the  ear-blasting 
sound  of  a  bullock's  horn  blown  by  lusty  lungs. 

The  windows  of  the  square  were  lined  with  grinning 
heads  that  cheered  lustily  as  the  crowd  flattened  three  sub- 
stantial members  of  the  rural  poHce  against  the  railings. 
These  homely  men,  whose  main  duty  it  is  to  see  that  sheep 
are  duly  dipped  according  to  regulations,  were  about  as 
able  to  cope  with  the  trouble  as  Dogberry  and  Verges 
would  have  been.  One  house  alone,  in  all  the  place,  was 
dark  and  closely  shuttered. 

''It's  the  hunting  of  the  stag,  sir,"  said  the  driver  with  a 
grin,  as  Ambrose  jumped  down  and  joined  him  at  the 
horse's  head,  for  with  staring  eyeballs  it  was  dancing  ner- 
vously at  the  din.  ''We'd  best  get  'un  out  of  this,  for  he'd 
go  like  the  very  wind  if  he  got  his  head  in  this  shindy. 
There's  a  back  way  round  to  the  stables,  praise  be." 

"Who  is  it  they're  hunting?"  asked  Ambrose  of  a  man 
who  stood  near. 

"Old  Solomon  Sadd.  The  lads  ha'  been  getting  tar- 
barrels  and  vizards  together  since  Michaelmas.  He's  a 
married  with  a  fam'ly,  but  he  got  a  girl  into  trouble  last 


374  A  Man  of  Genius 


spring  and  the  boys'll  make  him  pay  for  it,  the  old  raps- 
callion!" 

From  the  window  of  the  inn  parlour  Ambrose  watched 
the  last  stages  of  the  orgy,  feeling  as  though  he  himself 
were  being  flayed  by  the  mockery  of  his  peers.  It  was 
Solomon  Sadd  they  were  hunting  for  his  actual  mis- 
demeanours, but  it  was  Ambrose,  with  his  quick  sensitive- 
ness, who  was  bearing  the  fullest  pangs.  For,  had  Damaris 
been  less  noble,  had  they  "fallen,"  as  she  phrased  it,  this 
coarse  rite  would  have  been  earned  by  them.  To  Ambrose, 
the  idea  of  such  a  trail  of  mud  over  the  purity  of  her  life 
was  as  abhorrent  as  a  leer  of  suggestion  from  the  eyes  of  a 
Madonna,  and  for  a  moment,  in  the  horror  of  such  profana- 
tion, he  lost  even  his  sorrow  for  Thyrza's  misery.  As  he 
watched  the  flames  that  leapt  towards  the  grinning  masks, 
he  felt  as  though  the  noble  effort  of  Damaris'  struggle  had 
been  washed  away  in  a  stream  of  ribaldry.  How  far  it 
seemed  from  the  wood-scented  stillness  of  Tonacombe  to 
this;  yet  behind  the  passion  that  masquerades  as  a  god  there 
was  this  dance  of  satyrs,  this  judgment  of  the  nether  gods. 
And  weighed  in  the  balance  of  the  true  facts  of  life,  the 
Rabelaisian  verities,  indeed,  this  judgment  was  the  only 
true  one. 

Had  the  "hunting"  been  aimed  directly  at  himself, 
instead  of  at  Solomon,  Ambrose  would  have  fought  it  with 
contempt,  but  this  side  blow  grazed  his  skin  with  the 
irritation  of  startled  nerves.  For  to  the  spectator  the 
battle  is  often  more  nerve-shaking  than  to  the  actual  com- 
batants, who  are  themselves  plunged  back  in  the  savagery 
of  earlier  ages,  since  to  glance  into  the  seething  depths  of 
the  crude  passion  in  which  our  forefathers  wallowed  is 
more  illuminating  than  to  bathe  in  it. 

The  culminating  ceremony  of  the  judgment  had  begun 
in  the  square  by  now. 


The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods  375 

In  the  midst  of  a  rout  of  blackened  faces,  rode  a  man, 
on  a  hackney,  holding  in  front  of  him  a  moon-faced  efl5gy 
that  leered  with  chalky  features  and  represented  Solomon 
Sadd.  From  the  sleeves  of  the  straw-stuffed  figure  pro- 
jected dummy  fingers,  podgy  and  stiff.  The  ram's  horns 
fastened  to  the  forehead  of  the  image  had  slipped  sideways 
into  one  of  the  staring,  chalk-rimmed  eyes.  Immediately 
behind  the  "stag"  rode  a  man  in  a  vizard,  with  two  "whips" 
on  either  side,  each  carrying  a  bladder  on  a  string. 

The  end  came  in  the  roar  of  flame  and  the  press  of 
struggling  bodies,  when  the  bladders  full  of  bullock's  blood 
were  burst  over  the  culprit's  doorway  and  over  the  effigy 
that,  still  smouldering,  was  finally  dragged  along  the  street 
on  a  burning  tar-barrel. 

Once  common  in  all  the  country  from  Exmoor  to  the 
Cornish  border,  where  the  deer  roamed  wild  in  the  days  of 
our  forefathers,  "the  hunting  of  the  stag"  is  a  curious 
survival  of  primitive  savagery  and  of  primitive  justice.  In 
the  words  of  one  of  the  bystanders,  it  "always  leaves  the 
female  alone,"  and  is  always  aimed  at  a  married  man  who 
betrays  a  maiden.  The  pack  has  to  run  over  three  parishes 
to  escape  the  "lash  of  the  law,"  and  in  many  villages  in 
the  ancient  stag-hunting  district,  there  may  be  found  a  man 
whose  proudest  boast  it  is  that  he  was  chosen  to  act  the 
stag,  for  in  cases  where  no  farmer  will  lend  a  horse,  the 
stags  are  chosen  from  the  best  runners  of  the  district. 

Ambrose  had  come  over  to  Hartland  to  meet  Dr.  Day- 
man, and  as  the  hunting  chorus  faded  in  the  distance,  he 
heard  the  doctor's  voice  from  the  passage. 

"Yes,  it's  rough,"  said  he,  "and,  Hke  many  rough  things, 
wholesome.  If  they'd  carried  the  spirit  of  stag-hunting 
into  their  law-making,  we  should  have  cleaner  bills  of  health 
by  now.    The  heart  of  the  people's  right  every  time." 

The  two  men  greeted  one  another  coldly,  and  then  the 


376  A  Man  of  Genius 

doctor,  nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  square,  said  grimly — 

"So  they  got  up  an  entertainment  against  your  arrival 
here.    I  suppose  you  saw  that?" 

A  wave  of  hot  colour  flooded  young  Velly's  face. 

"Yes,"  he  said;   "I  saw  it." 

"Brought  things  home  a  bit,  I  should  say,"  remarked  the 
doctor;  "for  that's  the  way  we  treat  a  man  who  forgets 
himself  to  a  woman." 

"Dr.  Dayman,  if  I  could  undo — but  that's  futile,  as  Mr. 
Westaway  told  us.  You  were  to  bring  me  a  message  from 
Miss  Westaway?" 

"I  bring  one,  young  man.  And,  in  my  opinion,  it's  the 
wisest  thing  she's  said  for  a  good  spell.  I  knew  it  would 
be  wigs  on  the  green  if  you  came  to  Tonacombe.  A  sheer 
matter  of  flame  and  pitch,  as  I  told  her.  But  she  wouldn't 
listen  to  a  word,  not  she." 

"You  think  my  wife  will  never  be  found?" 

"I  think  there'll  be  a  shadow  over  another  noble  woman 
till  she  is  found,"  snapped  Dr.  Dayman.  "That's  what  I'm 
most  concerned  about." 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  him  to  look  at  young  Velly's 
harassed,  jaded  face,  with  the  quivering  nerves  that  played 
round  the  eye-sockets. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Ambrose,  "there  are  some  things  that 
God  himself  can't  undo.  And  one  of  those  things  is  my 
reverence  and  respect  for  Miss  Westaway." 

"There,  boy,  there,  I  know.  Damn  it  all,  I'm  a  prating 
nincompoop,  and  if  she  could  hear  me  maundering  on  like 
this  she'd  never  forgive  me.  But  truth's  truth,  though  the 
devil  say  it.  And  when  I  watch  her,  day  after  day,  trying 
long  jobs  of  mechanical  drawing  to  tire  herself  out,  why, 
I  wonder  if  the  fiends  do  thumb-nail  sketches  of  the  topog- 
raphy of  the  pit." 

"But  her  message?" 


The  Judgment  of  the  Nether  Gods  377 

"Ay,  her  message.  'Twas  this.  That  if  she  has  any 
influence  with  you,  if  you  have  even  any  thought  of  her 
peace  of  mind,  you'll  not  bring  a  double  ruin  on  yourself." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"That  you'll  go  away  to  the  building  of  the  Oratory  and 
not  throw  away  the  chance  that's  been  offered  you." 

"And  not  know  whether  my  wife's  above  ground  or  not!" 
exclaimed  Ambrose. 

"Any  clue?" 

"Not  a  ghost  of  one.     I  can't  go." 

"Yes,  you  can." 

At  the  familiar  phrase,  remembrance  quivered  through 
Ambrose  Velly's  ver)-  heart-strings. 

"Wait,"  continued  Dr.  Dayman,  "I  haven't  finished  yet. 
If  you  will  go  and  leave  the  work  to  her,  no  stone  shall  be 
left  unturned  to  find  your  wife.  Without  you,  Damaris 
will  have  a  clearer  hand.  And  she  will  begin  with  Chrissie 
Rosevear." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Ambrose,  "I  not  only  sent  there,  but 
I  went  there  myself  afterwards." 

"And  what  did  she  do?" 

"Said  Thyrza'd  been  there  one  time  too  many,  and  as 
to  where  she  was  now,  she  Midn't  know  no  more  than  the 
dead.'  And  slapped  the  door  in  my  face." 

"She  won't  in  Damaris  Westaway's  face,"  said  Dr. 
Dayman  quietly.  "So,  I  am  to  say  that  you'll  go  away  and 
fight  your  fight  there?" 

"And  leave  her  to  fight  mine  here,"  said  Ambrose 
bitteriy. 

"Gad,  man,  that's  just  what  she  has  done  pretty  nigh 
always  for  'ee." 

"So  she  has." 

"Then  let  her  fight  once  more.  It  will  give  her  more 
peace  than  aught  else,  and  at  your  hands  she  deserves  that. 


378  A  Man  of  Genius 

She'll  do  it  with  all  her  heart,  and  she  never  broke  her 
word  in  her  life.  For  if  she  swore  she'd  bite  the  head  off 
a  tenpenny  nail,  she'd  do  it." 

"I'm  stripped  of  everything,"  said  Ambrose. 

"We  mostly  do  begin  stripped,"  said  the  doctor  blandly, 
"and  for  my  part,  I  like  'ee  best  that  way.  For  there's 
something  rather  uppish  about  you  at  your  top-dog  times. 
But  I  knew  'ee  when  you  were  mother-naked,  and  I  can 
stand  'ee  very  well  like  that." 

Ambrose  laughed  and  felt  the  better  for  it,  since  the 
exercise  brought  with  it  a  Httle  strength  for  the  backward 
fling  of  the  head  with  which  he  usually  faced  the  fight. 

"I  don't  believe  Thyrza's  really  gone,"  said  he  incon- 
'sequently. 

"And  if  she  came  back,  what  then,  Velly?" 

"She  should  have  everything  I  could  give  her,  sir,  of 
peace  and  honour,  for,  my  God,  how  she  must  have  suffered 
before  she  .  .  .  went  away." 

Being  a  wise  man  Dr.  Dayman  said  nothing,  but  he 
knew  that  Ambrose,  taught  by  the  world's  hard  lessons, 
was  learning  something  of  that  patient  forbearance  which 
has  more  to  do  with  married  happiness  than  any  gift  of 
brain  or  body. 

"Then,"  said  he,  seizing  his  chance,  "give  another 
woman,  one  to  whom  you  owe  everything,  the  trust  she 
asks  of  you,  and  go  and  do  the  work  she  fought  to  gain  for 
you.  Will  you,  my  lad?  For  if  you  haven't  sucked  as 
much  sweetness  out  of  posies  as  I  reckoned  you  would, 
yet  all  the  same,  I  beheve  that  out  of  the  fighter  has  come 
forth  strength.  I  think  you'll  go  now,"  he  added  after  a 
pause. 

And  Ambrose  did. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 
THE  GATES  OF  DAWN 

DOWN  in  West  Appledore,  Irsha  Street  was  echoing 
with  hfe.  Overhead  a  narrow  slit  of  star-strewn  sky 
was  visible,  and  below,  from  the  low,  whitewashed  cottages, 
sounded  a  concertina,  accompanied  by  the  wails  of  children 
and  the  shouting  of  men.  In  the  open  doorways  women 
stood  rocking  babies  to  sleep  and  calling  shrilly  to  each 
other.  Lovers  whisj)ercd  at  the  entrances  to  the  side 
"drangs,"  boys  yelled  at  their  games,  cats  hunted  scraps 
in  reeking  gutters. 

Through  the  swarming  life  John  Darracott  swung  along 
in  his  high  boots  and  fisherman's  rig.  At  the  window  of 
one  of  the  houses  a  prim  little  girl  crouched,  gravely  wrest- 
ling with  the  knitting  of  a  stocking,  and  Darracott  paused 
for  a  moment  to  watch  her;  the  sight  made  him  smile, 
but  the  next  moment  he  sighed.  As  he  crossed  Northam 
burrows  on  his  way  to  the  boathouse,  he  saw  that  even 
in  this  wind-swept  place  of  regained  sand,  the  spring  was 
busy  with  the  low  roots  of  thyme  and  sea-thrift.  He  st(M)(l 
for  a  second  in  the  shadow  of  the  boathouse,  watching 
the  light  from  the  room  above.  For  in  his  heart,  as  in  the  sea- 
thrift,  there  was  the  uprising  of  the  spring.  He  did  not  wait 
long,  however,  for  the  light  drew  him,  and  soon  he  was 
climbing  the  ladder. 

"That's  something  like,"  he  said,  glancing  from  the 
lamp-lit  supper-table  to  the  fire  on  the  hearth.     "It  used 

379 


380  A  Man  of  Genius 

to  be  a  burnt-out  grate  that  I  come  home  to.  And  how've 
'ee  been  all  day,  my  dear?"  He  noticed  a  faint  shadow  on 
the  face  that  was  beginning  to  regain  its  brightness. 

"'Twas  wisht-like,  here  alone  all  day,"  she  said;  "and 
the  sea's  been  very  loud  somehow.  But  I  don't  mind  now 
you're  here.  Though  come  to  that,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
sound  of  the  sea,  'twould  be  lonier  far.  Besides,  I  like 
to  be  near  it,  for  I  was  bom  in  the  sound  of  it." 

She  was  pouring  a  stew  of  corned  beef  and  vegetables 
into  a  dish,  as  she  talked. 

"Ay,"  nodded  John,  "'tis  old  and  strange,  the  sea  is. 
There's  never  any  spring-time  comes  to  it.  'Tis  the  oldest 
thing  on  the  earth,  I  reckon." 

There  was  a  sense  of  strangeness  to-night,  and  the  roar 
of  the  pebble-ridge  seemed  coming  nearer  and  nearer.  In 
its  continuous  booming,  audible  for  miles  inland,  the  hiss  of 
spray  on  the  bar  was  lost. 

"My  boy  come  in  a  storm,"  said  Thyrza,  as  they  sat 
down  to  their  meal. 

Darracott  glanced  at  her  curiously,  for  it  was  almost  the 
first  time  in  all  these  weeks  that  she  had  mentioned  the 
child. 

"Oh,  John,  I  hear  'en  crying  sometimes,"  she  said, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  "It  comes  on  the 
wind." 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  said  Darracott  tenderly,  "I  doubted 
but  what  you  were  a-hungered  for  'en." 

His  tone  awoke  her  to  a  sense  of  her  own  selfishness. 

"There,"  she  said,  dashing  away  her  tears,  "don't  'ee 
worrit  about  me,  John.  Did  you  draw  those  fishes?"  she 
asked,  nodding  at  the  sketches  he  had  brought  from  Hart- 
land  Quay. 

"Ay,"  he  said;  "I've  sat  upon  a  fish  maund  to  Clovelly 
many  and  many  a  time  and  drawed  'em  in.     I've  always 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  381 

wanted  to  know  about  Her,"  he  continued  meditatively,  as 
he  jerked  a  thumb  towards  the  sea.  "For  'tis  dullish 
going  to  work  day  after  day  with  nothing  for  your  mind  to 
play  upon.  I  never  was  one  to  go  w^ith  a  mate  neither. 
'Tis  queer  what  stuff  comes  up  from  Her,  particularly  with 
a  dredger." 

"Is  it  true  about  the  queer  marks  on  the  drowned  folk? 
I've  heard  women  talking  about  'em." 

"Iss,  that's  octopus  marks.  'Tis  like  this  here:  the 
conger  is  the  only  fish  that  can  tackle  an  octopus,  and  when 
the  conger  gets  scarcer,  the  octopus  gets  more  plentiful. 
That's  the  w^ay  of  it.  But,"  he  continued,  as  they  got  up 
from  table,  "I've  got  something  for  you  to  look  at  here." 

He  handed  her  a  big  parcel,  and  filling  his  pipe,  sat 
down  to  watch  her  open  it.  The  question  of  its  contents 
had  been  a  serious  matter  of  cogitation  to  John,  during 
many  hours  of  the  monotonous  toil  of  gravel-loading. 

At  length  it  was  opened,  and  Thyrza  laid  on  the  table  a 
length  of  calico,  sundry  reels  of  cotton,  a  packet  of  blue 
jersey  wool,  and  a  set  of  great  knitting  needles. 

Her  eyes  filled,  for  now  she  remembered  that  three 
evenings  ago  she  had  found  him  turning  the  folds  of  a 
much-mended  garment  that  lay  across  a  chair-back  by  the 
fire.  It  was  the  one  she  had  carried  in  her  pack  on  the 
night  when  she  fled  from  Tonacombe. 

"For  a  new  bedgown,"  he  said  simply;  "and  I  thought 
while  you  were  about  it,  you  might  so  well  knit  me  a  jersey 
too." 

In  the  cord  of  the  parcel  was  caught  a  knot  of  violets. 
Many  times  before,  she  had  found  on  the  table  a  little 
bunch  of  flowers.  At  the  sight  of  them  she  exclaimed — 

"Oh,  John,  John,  you're  that  good  to  me,  and  I  can't 
pay  you  back.  There's  nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  nothing. 
And  you  spend  too  much  on  me.     For  I  know  you  smoke 


382  A  Man  of  Genius 

a  deal  less  than  you  used  to  do.  Oh,  John,  it  didn't  ought 
to  be,  it  didn't,  indeed." 

The  next  moment  she  had  slipped  to  her  knees  and  he 
felt  a  butterfly  kiss  on  his  hands.  For  all  that  his  skin  was 
callous  with  labour,  the  touch  of  it  reached  his  heart. 

*'Thyrza,  don't  you  never  do  that  again,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

She  glanced  at  his  face  and  shivered,  for  on  it  was  the 
worse  fear  a  man  can  know,  the  fear  of  himself.  Then  he 
got  up  and  went  quietly  out  of  the  room,  and  she  saw  no 
more  of  him  that  evening.  She  sat  motionless  for  a  long 
time  after  he  had  gone,  knowing  that  the  gates  of  this 
refuge  were  closing  behind  her.  In  her  lonely  brooding  it 
was  a  rehef  to  feel  the  yellow  dog  slip  a  damp  nose  into  her 
hand.  But  his  master  did  not  come,  and  as  she  waited, 
Thyrza  fell  to  a  low  sobbing  that  tore  her  heart  for  pity, 
since  John,  remembering  her  loneliness,  must  have  sent 
the  dog  back  to  her,  for  Rough  would  never  have  come 
else.  Darracott  thought  of  everything,  he  forgot  nothing 
in  his  steady  love,  and  the  knowledge  of  the  struggle  he 
was  going  through  pierced  deeper  and  deeper  into  her 
heart.    Yet  where  was  there  a  place  of  shelter  for  her? 

It  was  past  midnight  when  Thyrza  awoke  from  her  first 
sleep  that  night,  and  lying  there  in  her  bunk  she  felt  that 
she  was  alone  in  the  house.  Leaning  on  her  elbow,  she 
Hstened  for  a  moment:  there  was  no  sound  save  the  snoring 
of  the  dog  on  the  rug.  Softly  rising,  she  crept  to  the  top 
of  the  ladder  and  listened.  It  was  as  she  suspected — Darra- 
cott was  not  there.  Going  down  a  few  steps  with  a  candle, 
she  saw  his  hammock  hanging  empty  from  the  rafters. 
Cold  with  more  than  the  chill  of  the  night,  she  lay  for  a 
long  time  listening  to  the  wind  that  stole  round  the  house, 
seeking  for  the  entry  denied  it,  hke  the  passion  that  was 
knocking  at  John  Darracott's  heart. 

A  few  days  later  there  came  an  hour  when  the  wild  sou'- 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  383 

westers  fell  into  a  glorj'  of  sunlight  that  matched  the  celan- 
dines in  the  hedges.  Among  owners  of  gardens  the  talk 
was  of  ''tettics,"  of  Early  Puritans,  Blue  Wonders  and 
Naygurs'  Teeth.  The  long-drawn  note  of  flies,  the  hum  of 
bees  in  the  gorse,  the  breaking  of  white-tipped  waves,  all 
echoed  with  the  tone  of  forth-looking  that  makes  one  doubt 
what  the  Celestial  City  can  give  more  delightsome  than  the 
joys  of  the  summer  sun. 

Here,  where  the  sea  is  purple  and  emerald  green,  pearly 
blue  and  opal  grey,  the  earth  green  and  golden,  red-brown, 
or  starry  with  charlock  and  celandine,  primroses  and  lady- 
smocks,  the  cliffs  dark  and  louring,  where  the  glare  of 
whitewashed  cottages  vies  with  the  scarlet  of  cactus  and 
geranium,  humanity  ought  surely  to  borrow  something  of 
the  eagle's  life  to  match  the  glory  of  its  background.  But 
up  fishy  alleys  the  child  is  borne  with  weariness,  brought 
forth  with  pain  and  struggles  into  the  narrow  lot  of  care  for 
to-morrow's  bread  till  the  gathering  winter  closes  round. 
Only  half  a  child  of  the  open,  he  is  harassed  with  fears 
that  the  fish  knows  not,  and  cares  that  the  bird  never  felt, 
for  in  seeking  to  gain  the  mastery  of  two  worlds  he  has 
failed  in  both. 

The  belly-pinching  days  when  the  luggers  are  kept  in  the 
harbour,  the  shadow  of  the  poorhouse,  and  of  the  bursting 
churchyard  where  the  grass  springs  from  what  once  felt: 
no  dreams  of  the  gates  of  pearl  that  admit  to  the  foursquare 
city  can  master  the  fear  of  these. 

In  the  broad  light  that  comes  with  the  spring  evenings, 
Thyrza  stood  at  the  door  of  the  boathouse  waiting  for 
Darracott.  It  was  high  tide,  and  the  boat  he  used  to  carry 
him  to  his  work  would  bring  him  up  close  to  the  house. 
Mischief  was  afoot;  the  sea,  the  wind,  her  own  nature 
called,  as  the  breeze  blew  back  the  loose  hair  from  her  face. 

*'Oh,   John,"   she  cried,  running  down   the  sandy  spit 


384  A  Man  of  Genius 

where  he  was  grounding  the  boat,  "take  me  out  a  bit 
'Tis  getting  lateish,  and  nobody  will  see  us.    Do,  dear,  for 
I  do  so  want  a  bit  of  a  change." 

She  lived  the  Hfe  of  a  hermit,  for  it  was  only  in  the  dark 
that  she  could  venture  out,  lest  any  one  should  see  her 
coming  out  of  the  boathouse.  Darracott  hesitated,  yet  he 
could  not  bear  to  refuse  her  an  innocent  pleasure  like  this. 
In  a  moment,  all  panting  and  aglow,  she  had  stepped  on 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat  and  was  beside  him. 

"You  don't  mind,"  she  said,  ''I'm  sure  nobody  will 
know." 

He  was  silent,  as  he  wrestled  with  the  fluttering  sheet 
of  brown  sail,  whilst,  in  their  swallow-like  flight,  she  held 
her  breath  for  sheer  joy.  Taking  off  her  hat,  she  leant 
forward,  while  John  watched  her,  as  with  parted  lips  she 
drank  the  breath  of  the  sea-wind.  At  last,  as  he  sat  leaning 
forward  with  his  hand  on  the  rope,  she  slipped  down  to  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  beside  him.  With  one  great  shudder 
he  caught  her  with  his  left  arm  and  held  her  close.  The 
sea  was  darkening  now,  and  with  the  night  there  came  a 
sense  of  the  implacable  forces  that  no  man  can  fight. 

"You're  so  strong,"  she  whispered,  "I  like  to  feel  you 
there,  for  you're  not  against  me,  but  for  me." 

Her  breath  caught  quickly  in  her  throat  for  the  wind- 
swept, sun-tanned  manhood  of  him.  Then  there  came  a 
flicker  across  his  face  like  a  sunray  on  the  sea,  and  she  felt 
his  lips  on  her  cheek. 

"Ay,  lass,"  he  said,  "always  for  you,  never  against  you, 
don't  you  think  it.'* 

She  yielded  for  a  moment  or  two,  while  the  boat  rocked  : 
them  together,  like  the  beating  of  their  two  hearts.    Then 
she  cried:  "John,  let  us  go  back,  let  us  go  back." 

As  he  turned  the  boat  round,  he  heard  her  low  sobbing 
breaths. 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  385 

"Don't  'ee,  my  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  *"tis  almost  worse 
than  all,  that  I  should  ever  have  brought  'ee  to  a  pass  like 
this." 

As  he  followed  her  up  to  their  Uving  room,  her  terrified 
heart  was  seeking  strength  for  him  rather  than  for  herself. 
They  stood  quite  still  for  a  full  minute.  Then,  sweeping 
her  off  her  feet,  Darracott  caught  her  to  him,  and  she 
knew%  in  the  mighty  grip  of  his  arms,  that  Ambrose  was 
still  evcr}-thing  to  her. 

*'  Let  me  go! "  she  cried.  *'  I  didn't  know  that  night.  No, 
and  not  till  now,  that  I'm  still  his." 

"Forgive  me,  Thyrza,"  he  said,  gently  putting  her  down. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "'tis  I  that  am  to  blame,  to  come  here 
and  bring  sorrow^  on  'ee  like  this." 

"He's  ever}'thing  still  to  'ee?" 

"Everything." 

When  he  was  gone,  she  stood  in  the  darkness  to  listen 
to  his  footsteps  on  the  cobbles  below^  and  as  they  were 
deadened  by  the  sandy  hillocks,  she  knew  that  he  was  gone 
out  of  her  life.  Lighting  the  lamp  she  fetched  water, 
and  began  a  hard  night's  work  at  cleaning  the  room.  It 
was  the  last  service  she  would  be  able  to  perform  for  him, 
and  sleep  was  impossible.  When  the  floor  and  shelves  were 
scrubbed  and  neatly  rearranged,  she  laid  on  the  table  the 
jersey  she  had  knitted  for  him;  her  own  bundle  was  already 
j)ackcd.  It  was  a  difficult  matter  to  fmd  pencil  and  paper, 
but  at  last  she  discovered  a  fragment  of  coarse  yellowish 
notcpaper  and  a  pencil  stump. 

"God  bless  you,  John,"  she  wrote,  "for  all  the  rest 
and  peace  you  have  given  me.  Forget  everv'thing  else. 
I  am  going  away  to  get  work,  in  Appledore  if  I  can,  for 
I  want  to  feel  that  there's  still  a  friend  near  me.    Thyrza." 

By  the  time  John  returned  in  the  evening  to  the  boat- 
house,  she  had  found  a  berth.     The  people  whom  she 
25 


386  A  Man  of  Genius  | 

k 

asked  in  the  village  were  unanimously  of  the  opinion  that  i 
Mrs.  Peter  Quance,  of  the  general  shop  in  Market  Street,  i 
would  be  more  likely  to  know  of  work  than  any  one  else,  ij 
Before  Mrs.  Quance,  Thyrza  therefore  presented  herself,  i 
On  her  left  hand  she  now  wore  her  wedding  ring.  i 

"My  husband's  dead,  and  I  can't  get  work  to  Northam,"  ,; 
she  concluded,  after  she  had  told  her  errand.  j 

"There's  the  collar  factory  here,  up  Factory  Ope.  ^ 
You  might  enquire  there,"  said  Mrs.  Quance,  her  round  ] 
face  gleaming  moonlike  out  of  the  dark  background  of  i 
biscuit  tins  and  sides  of  bacon.  "Or  there's  the  factory  to  _; 
Bideford.  You  wouldn't  get  took  on  in  a  private  house,  | 
not  without  a  character."  | 

"I  suppose  there's  no  out-door  work  to  be  got,"  said  | 
Thyrza  doubtfully.  "I  can  handle  a  boat  better  than  most  | 
men.    I  don't  want  to  do  factory  work  if  I  can  help  it." 

"Out-door  work's  not  for  women,"  interposed  the  hugei 
tun-like  person  who  was  wedging  his  Falstaffian  person 
sideways  through  the  doorway.     "Though  if  you'd  lend' 
a  hand  with  the  ferry,  I'm  danged  if  I  wouldn't  give  'ee  a  J 
job,  now  that  loitering  scoundrel  Daggry's  failed  me."         j 

"Lord,  Quance,  what  old  trade  you  do  talk  up.    Wouldn't  | 
folks  laugh  at  a  maid  working  the  ferry.    'Tisn't  woman's 
work  at  all." 

"Let  'em  laugh.  What's  a  laugh  anyway  ? "  said  Quance, 
to  whom  the  idea  became  alluring  now  that  his  wife  opposed 
him.  He  had  had  "a  few  words"  with  her  that  morning' 
just  a  thousand  or  so. 

"I've  managed  boats  pretty  nigh  all  my  life,"  said  Thyrza. 

"Can  'ee  sail  and  scull?  Tell  'ee  what,  I've  a  good 
mind  to  try  it.  I  can  see  'ee  now  in  cap  and  jersey  crying, 
'Ferry,  sir.*  Look  at  her,  Maria,"  he  said,  as  the  girl 
stood  at  attention. 

"IVe  got  a  jersey  in  my  bundle,  too,"  said  Thyrza. 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  387 

"Go  upstairs  and  put  'en  on,  my  dear.  Here,  missus, 
take  her  up.  Upon  my  days,  'twill  be  a  regular  take  with 
the  visitors,  and  they'm  coming  in  as  thick  as  cheese-mites 
in  all  this  warmth." 

A  few  minutes  later  Thyrza  followed  the  rolling  figure  of 
her  huge  employer  down  the  slip,  as  amid  a  fire  of  witti- 
cisms from  the  loungers  on  the  quay,  she  started  on  her 
first  voyage.  Rosy-cheeked,  with  hands  that  shook,  she 
pushed  off  and  set  sail  for  the  Instow  side,  while  Peter  sat 
smoking  comfortably,  as  he  instructed  her  in  the  matter 
of  sandbanks  and  currents.  Before  nightfall  the  jest  of 
the  thing  had  captured  her  fancy,  and  she  accomplished 
her  task  of  calling,  "Boat,  sir,"  at  the  station  gates. 

The  day's  work  was  a  good  one  for  Quance,  and  the 
rival  ferr}'men  would  have  fallen  tooth  and  nail  on  him,  if 
he  had  not  been  fierce  enough  to  rope-end  the  lot  of  them. 
Thyrza  found  one  reason  for  Quance's  fancy  was  decidedly 
the  fact  that  he  calculated  the  pay  for  a  "faymale"  would 
be  about  one-third  of  a  man's  pay.  However,  as  it  included 
food  and  a  room  under  the  roof,  and  as  Mrs.  Quance 
seemed  a  decent  body,  Thyrza  struck  her  queer  bargain 
under  the  name  of  Thyrza  Minards. 

As  the  three  sat  at  tea  in  the  back  parlour,  well  scented 
with  soap  and  cheese,  Mrs.  Quance  remarked  to  Thyrza — 

"Back  along  you  must  have  been  a  tidy  looking  maid. 
Isn't  her  like  'Lisbeth  Ann  Pengelly,  Quance?  But  I  hope 
you  won't  tum  like  her,  though  I  did  get  a  judgment  along 
of  her,  the  nasty  waspish  toad." 

"Do  you  believe  in  judgments,  then?"  asked  Thyrza. 

"I  don't  believe.  I  know.  I've  had  one.  Haven't  I, 
Quance?" 

"So  you  say." 

"You  know  'tis  so,"  retorted  Mrs.  Quance,  as  picking  his 
teeth  after  a  meal  (^f  tinned  salmon,  Quance  leant  liack 


388  A  Man  of  Genius 

luxuriously.  "'Twas  long  before  I  took  up  with  Peter," 
said  Mrs.  Quance.  ''Reuben  Isbell,  he  that  lived  down 
Godfrey's  Court,  was  fair  wild  for  'Lisbeth  Ann.  A  third 
share  he  had  in  the  Saucy  Sally,  but  it  ought  by  rights 
to  have  been  the  Luckless  Lucy,  for  there  never  was  a  boat 
with  more  mishaps.  And  'Lisbeth  Ann  wouldn't  hear 
of  the  banns  being  called  home  without  he'd  give  her 
everything  right  and  proper.  'There  must  be  a  bed  and 
a  dresser,  and  a  chest  of  drawers,  and  a  clock  and  a  table. 
Else  won't  have  'en.'  And  at  that  the  old  Nick  went  into 
Reuben  Isbell." 

Mrs.  Quance's  hands  were  trembling  as  she  folded  the 
tablecloth. 

"I  wasn't  so  well  off  then  as  I  be  now,  and  that  forenoon 
one  of  the  church  ladies  come  to  see  me.  Sometimes  they'd 
bring  me  a  half  pound  of  tea.  Presently  her  come  back 
again,  all  gaspy-Hke,  to  know  if  I'd  seen  her  purse.  Though 
I  hadn't  so  much  as  ghmpsed  the  back  of  it,  I  knew  in  my 
innerds  her  thought  I'd  got  it.  Twadn't  found,  and  the  talk 
went  buzz,  buzz,  buzzing  about  me. 

"And  all  the  folks  said  the  Saucy  Sally  must  ha'  been 
doing  well,  for  'Lisbeth  Ann  got  all  her  wanted  and  the  two 
got  married.  Still,  I  never  put  the  two  things  together,  till 
the  judgment  came.  And  then  I  knew.  And  if  ever  a 
judgment  come  straight  down  from  above,  that  one  did. 
'Twas  just  betwixt  the  night  and  the  morning  when  there 
come  a  shout  that  fair  lifted  me  out  of  bed.  'Wake  up,  all 
of  'ee,  there's  a  high  tide  coming  that'll  sweep  the 
town.' 

"I'd  thought  on  a  cup  of  tea  the  instant  I  heard  the  call, 
but  watter  was  nigh  up  to  my  knees  when  I  put  foot  to 
floor,  and  there  wasn't  the  chance  of  a  fire.  And  my  best 
bonnet,  what  I  kept  in  a  box  under  the  bed " 

"A  sopping  horror,"  said  Thyrza. 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  389 

"I  couldn't  see  for  the  tears,"  said  Mrs.  Quance,  "for 
though  I  piled  up  everything  upon  the  chest  of  drawers,  they 
was  all  of  a  muck.  And  there  I  sot  wrapt  in  the  bed- 
clothes— and  I  saw  another  lot  o'  furniture  being  spoilt  too, 
for  the  light  had  come  to  me.  'The  second  drawer,'  said  I, 
'that'll  reach  their  dressers  and  the  cheers'U  be  a-floating 
afore  now.  There's  them  above  that  knows  what  I've  borne 
by  'em,  and  now  'tis  their  judgment.  Ever}'  piece  of  their 
stolen  trade'U  fail  to  bits  and  'Lisbeth  Ann'll  lie  on  the 
floor.' 

**And  then  I  must  ha'  nodded,  for  the  next  thing  I  knew 
there  was  Reuben  Isbell  with  a  cloam  taypot  in  one  hand 
and  a  cup  hitched  on  to  his  little  finger. 

"'Here,  missus,'  he  said,  'I've  made  a  fire  and  been 
feeding  the  court  like  so  many  blessed  babbies.  Here,  take 
a  cup  o'  this.' 

'"I  wouldn't  touch  it  for  forty  golden  guineas.' 

"'Woman's  head  gone,'  saith  a.  'Come,  drink  it  up  and 
you'll  be  able  to  turn  to  a  bit.  The  light's  coming,  thanks 
be.' 

'"Reuben  Isbell,  is  your  grand  new  furniture  a-mucksied 
same  as  mine?' 

'"Iss,  'tis.    Worse,  I  reckon,  if  anything.' 

"  'Then  'tis  a  judgment.  'Twas  stolen  goods,  that  I 
knaw,  and  so  the  watter's  come  down  on  'ee.  I've  seen  it 
this  very  night.' 

'"Will  'ee  drink  this  'ere  tay  or  no?' 

'"That  I  won't.' 

"'Then  here  goes  the  tay  and  the  taypot,  too.'  With 
that  scat  went  the  taypot  against  the  wall  of  the  court. 

'"I  don't  care  a  rush  for  the  money,'  saith  a;  'one's  all 
Have  and  t'other's  all  Have-nots  in  this  blessed  world,  and 
the  Haves  with  so  much  that  they  must  leave  it  under  a 
man's  very  eye — as  if  to  say,  "Come,  take  it."    'Twas  but  a 


390  A  Man  of  Genius 

loan,  and  I'll  pay  it  back.  I'll  make  a  clean  breast  of  it, 
though  I  be  jailed  for  it,  but  I  won't  let  'ee  bear  the  blame 
a  minute  longer.'" 

''And  was  he  jailed?"  said  Thyrza. 

''Not  he.  Paid  it  back  within  the  two  year,  and  now  he 
plays  the  concertina  of  a  Sunday  afternoon  with  the  baby 
on  his  knee.  But,"  said  Mrs.  Quance,  "the  looking- 
glass  went  crack  when  I  put  'en  by  the  fire  to  dry,  and 
the  mattress  I'd  to  heave  over  quay.  Still,  I  had  a  judg- 
ment." 

As  she  worked  at  the  ferry  for  the  next  two  days,  Thyrza 
often  strained  her  eyes  towards  the  bank  where  Darracott 
had  been  working,  but  at  that  distance  it  was  impossible 
to  distinguish  him  from  the  other  men. 

She  believed  that  her  stay  with  him  had  escaped  notice, 
but  all  the  town  was  agog  with  interest  in  the  strange 
spectacle  of  the  ferry  girl,  and  at  last  the  bolt  fell  from  a 
clear  sky. 

On  the  third  afternoon,  off  Appledore  Quay  the  impish 
figures  of  three  naked  children  gleamed  rosy  against  the 
background  of  sea  and  sky,  where  a  storm-cloud  was  begin- 
ning to  gather.  The  spirit  of  merry  devilry  shot  from  their 
muddy  little  heels  as  they  capered  over  the  slime  of  the 
beach,  dipping  every  time  they  entered  the  water  beneath 
the  anchor-ropes  of  two  black-hulled  coalers.  Thyrza 
stood  for  a  moment  to  watch  them,  her  body  swaying 
above  the  high  sea-boots,  for  the  purchase  of  which  Quance 
had  made  an  advance  of  wages,  to  the  motion  of  the  dan- 
cing gnomes. 

Suddenly  she  felt  an  arm  flung  round  her  waist,  and 
smelt  the  reek  of  a  pipe  close  to  her  cheek.  Quick  as 
a  flash  she  started  back,  giving  the  man  a  push  that  sent 
him  staggering.  At  the  roars  of  laughter  from  the  watchers 
behind,  he  lost  his  temper,  shouting — 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  391 

"So  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you,  it  seems.  You'm 
mighty  particular  all  of  a  sudden — for  a  light  o'  love." 

"Hullo!  Hullo!  What's  the  meaning  of  this?"  called 
Peter  Quance  from  the  sHp.  "What  the  devil  are  you 
doing  with  my  ferryman?" 

In  his  jesting  tones  Thyrza  read  more  than  she  had 
heard  in  the  other  man's  insult.  Then,  in  the  ring  of  faces 
round  her,  she  saw  something  that  drove  the  shamed  blood 
back  from  her  cheeks,  as  though  her  dress  had  been  rent 
from  head  to  heel. 

She  stood  for  a  breath,  watching  the  gap-toothed  women 
who  seemed  all  mouth,  the  leering  men  who  seemed  all 
eyes.  Then  she  guessed  that  the  secret  of  her  stay  at  the 
boathouse  had  leaked  out.  For  a  moment  the  grey  dome 
of  sky  at  the  back  of  these  human  gadflies  seemed  to  gather 
closer  round  them,  as  though  their  thoughts,  like  Samson's 
hands,  had  pulled  down  the  temple  walls.  As  she  watched 
the  sHme  of  evil  thoughts  creeping  over  the  months  she  had 
spent  with  Darracott,  she  knew  the  selfish  thoughtlessness 
she  had  shown  in  staying  there.  She  shut  her  eyes,  not  at 
the  laughter  in  the  eyes  around  her,  but  at  the  trouble  she 
had  brought  to  him. 

FHnging  down  the  coil  of  rope  she  was  carrying,  she 
pushed  her  way  out  of  the  crowd  and  passed  along  the  quay, 
thronged  now  at  doors  and  windows  by  the  mysterious 
instinct  that  si)reads  the  news  of  a  fracas.  A  boy  threw  a 
stone  that  grazed  her  cheek,  and  a  woman's  voice  shoutc<l 
a  vile  word  as  she  passed. 

No  one  was  in  Quance's  shoj),  though  the  yelling  boys 
who  followed  her  glued  their  eyes  to  the  window-panes. 
Against  their  pushing  hands  Thyrza  fastened  the  door  and 
went  upstairs  to  her  room.  On  the  lanch'ng  outside  she 
swayed  for  a  moment,  after  the  ner\'e-sliattcring  siege  of 
hate  that  she  had  endured.     In  the  close  air,  reeking  of 


392  A  Man  of  Genius 

dingy  shop  and  squalid  kitchen,  she  stood  trying  to  get 
back  her  composure. 

But  the  sound  inside  her  room  roused  the  reasoned  anger 
that  is  strength.  First  there  came  from  within  the  noise 
of  shuffling  footsteps,  followed  by  the  opening  of  a  drawer. 
The  next  moment  she  entered  to  see  what  she  had  expected 
— Mrs.  Quance  in  carpet  slippers  and  an  old  black  shawl 
bending  over  the  few  possessions  that  Thyrza  had  laid  in 
the  drawers. 

"Is  there  anything  you  want?"  she  asked  quietly,  and 
at  the  start  Mrs.  Quance  gave  could  scarcely,  for  all  her 
misery,  forbear  to  laugh.  "Ah,  I  thought  so,"  said  Thyrza, 
coming  forward  and  tossing  out  on  the  bed  a  bedraggled 
ostrich  feather.  "You're  giving  this  to  me,  I  suppose," 
she  said,  "but  I  don't  want  it,  thank  you.  I  quite  under- 
stand why  you  put  it  there,  though.  You  wanted  to  make 
me  out  a  thief." 

"That  a  brazen  hussy  should  dare  to  speak  to  me  like 
this,"  screamed  Mrs.  Quance.  "Why,  all  the  town's  agog 
with  the  tale  of  you  and  John  Darracott.  He  was  always  a 
hang-dog  fellow  — " 

"Go  out  of  the  room  this  minute,"  said  Thyrza,  her 
breath  coming  in  pants. 

Mrs.  Quance  took  this  for  fear  and  laughed  taunt- 
ingly. 

"You're  no  better  than  a  kept  woman,  but  I  suppose  you 
found  'twasn't  over-good  keep,  so  you  thought  you'd  try 
Quance  instead.  You  that  I  brought  into  an  honest  house. 
You've  been  here  but  three  nights,  and  you've  stayed  your 
last.  I  can  tell  'ee  that." 

She  was  a  heavy  woman,  but  with  Thyrza's  hands  on 
her  shoulders  she  rolled  out  of  the  room  as  though  on 
wheels. 

"I'm  going  in  half  an  hour,"  said  Thyrza,  locking  the 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  39-7 

door,  "out  of  this  place,  where  you've  the  thoughts  of 
devils." 

The  fierce  chastity  of  a  wife,  fiercer  far  than  the  chastity 
of  mere  unknowing  girlhood,  burnt  in  her  veins  like  a  fever 
transforming  weakness  into  strength,  vacillation  into  de- 
cision, hysteria  into  the  fire  of  steady  anger. 

There  were  not  many  possessions  to  be  packed;  and 
with  a  little  bundle  in  her  hand,  she  managed  to  slip  noise- 
lessly down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house.  Hunying  along 
the  street,  she  took  the  road  that  leads  out  west.  Here 
she  was  not  known,  and  attracted  but  little  notice  as  she 
passed.  From  the  coastguard  point  there  runs  up  the 
hillside  a  lane  grown  over  with  branches  that  form  a  com- 
plete roof  in  places.  Here,  with  the  wind  rising  ever}' 
moment,  she  determined  to  wait,  till  at  nightfall  she  would 
be  able  to  cross  the  burrows  to  the  boathouse,  for  she  felt 
it  impossible  to  leave  Appledore  without  seeing  Darracott 
once  to  warn  him  of  the  trouble  that  was  brewing  for  him. 

But  the  force  outside  man,  a  force  that  plays  havoc  with 
all  his  purposes,  was  to  take  the  reins  of  her  life  in  its  hands 
that  night.  With  the  quick  coming  darkness  there  began 
the  roaring  note  of  sea  and  wind,  a  note  of  rage  that 
Thyrza  knew  well,  as  she  cowered  in  the  mossy  dampness  of 
the  tree-roofed  lane  that  leads  to  the  Outlook  Field. 
Miles  away  in  peaceful  inland  villages  the  roaring  of  the 
ridge  that  night  made  heavy  sleepers  wake,  while  the  foam 
fell  in  solid  yellow  flakes  on  the  fields  above  the  bay.  Thyrza 
was  soon  drenched  to  the  skin  in  the  torrents  of  rain,  and 
in  many  of  the  houses  of  Ai)pledore  the  shutters  were  closed 
against  the  cyclonic  violence  of  the  wind. 

There  came  at  length  a  buzzing  of  the  human  hive,  a 
mysterious  influence  that  seemed  to  rise  from  the  very 
stones,  as  the  women  crowded  to  their  doors  and  the  men 
began  to  fight  their  way,  inch  by  inch,  to  the  coastguard 


394 


A  Man  of  Genius 


point.  Out  beyond  the  bar  there  came  through  the  dark- 
ness a  red  flare,  Hke  a  steady  lightning  flash,  that  was 
repeated  again  and  again.  Thyrza  knew  what  it  meant,  as 
it  showed  against  the  curtain  of  blackness  over  the  bay. 
Panting,  dripping,  and  dishevelled,  she  fought  her  way  to 
the  life-boat  house,  where  the  groups  of  men  and  women 
were  gathering  rapidly.  Within  the  house  there  came  the 
steady  call  of  names  and  the  hoarse  voice  of  the  cox,  fighting 
a  losing  match  in  noise  with  the  roar  of  the  storm. 

Thyrza  pushed  her  way  steadily  to  the  front,  till  she 
could  look  into  the  brightly  lit  house,  where  the  burly 
figures  mustered.  Then,  whilst  her  heart  beat  pantingly  as 
though  it  would  burst  from  her  breast,  she  heard  the 
whisper,  ''They're  a  man  short.  Beara's  to  bed  ill,  and 
there's  his  wife." 

But  they  were  not  short  many  seconds,  for  instantly  Darra- 
cott  stepped  from  the  crowd,  and,  after  a  curt  word  or  two 
with  the  coxswain,  fell  into  fine  among  the  regular  boat  crew. 
His  great  frame  and  herculean  build  matched  the  power 
of  the  huge  lifeboat.  As  another  flare  came  from  the  sea 
and  was  answered  from  the  coastguard,  the  boat  sHd 
forward  with  a  "heave-ho"  from  the  crew.  Unseen, 
Thyrza  touched  the  oilskins  of  the  last  man :  it  was  Darra- 
cott,  but  he  never  noticed  her. 

In  the  exaltation  of  the  moment,  Thyrza  saw  nothing 
but  the  face  that  had  passed  her  so  close  that  she  could 
mark  the  firm-set  Hps,  could  see  the  dazzle  of  the  rings  in 
his  ears. 

Slowly,  while  she  stood  leaning  by  the  low  wall,  the 
watchers  drifted  away  to  seek  shelter  from  the  pitiless  rain, 
till  only  a  woman  or  two  remained,  doggedly  refusing 
the  offered  hospitahty  of  the  houses  along  the  cliff,  being 
either  too  dazed  or  too  tired  to  move.  Ultimately  they  all 
disappeared  save  Thyrza. 


The  Gates  of  Dawn  395 

Hours  seemed  to  her  to  pass,  till  at  length  there  came 
out  of  the  dark  void  once  more  the  light  that  meant  the 
lifeboat  was  returning  with  its  load. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  point  was  crowded  again,  and 
Thyrza  had  to  fight  to  keep  her  footing  by  the  wall.  In 
the  struggle  she  scarcely  noticed  the  shout  that  came  from 
the  shore,  as  the  dark  outline  of  the  boat  became  visible 
through  the  spray,  but  a  woman  sobbed  softly  by  the  side 
of  her,  ''Thcy'm  safe,  and  they've  got  'em." 

In  the  press  Thyrza's  arm  was  almost  broken  but  she 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  wave-washed  boat  that  rose  and 
fell  outside  the  surf. 

'^ There's  my  man,"  cried  her  neighbour.  Then  the 
news  passed  through  the  crowd,  "  They've  saved  the  crew, 
but  the  boat  capsized  and  righted  herself  again." 

There  was  something  more,  Thyrza  felt  sure,  as  she  fought 
her  way  out  close  to  the  slip.  Before  she  reached  it,  she 
knew  what  it  was:  there  was  a  man  missing  from  the  crew. 
At  last  she  pushed  her  way  out  to  the  dripping  figure  of  the 
coxswain,  outhned  in  yellow  oilskins  against  the  light. 

''Iss,"  she  heard  him  say,  ''Darracott's  gone;  didn't 
rise  again  when  she  righted  herself.  Struck  on  the  head, 
I  reckon.  'Tis  the  first  we've  lost  from  this  lifeboat.  The 
Marie  RogeVs  had  her  baptism  to-night." 

Then,  as  he  saw  Thyrza's  eyes  on  him,  the  old  man 
poured  out  a  lava  stream  of  curses  that  recked  from  his 
great  lips,  till  the  bystanders  began  to  laugh. 

As  she  stood  in  the  open  space  on  the  slij),  she  knew 

that  the  whisper  was  going  round  against  her.     She  was 

Darracott's  woman — and  she  was  proud  of  it.    Lifting  her 

head  bravely,  she  watched  the  ring  of  faces,  as  though  they 

ad  assembled  to  do  her  honour. 

At  last  a  woman  stepped  forward  and  caught  her  1  )y  the  arm. 

''Come   with    me,    my   dear,"    she   said;     "you'm    wet 


396  A  Man  of  Genius 

through  and  worn  out,  and  I  doubt  but  that  you've  nowhere 
to  go.    Come  home  with  me." 

She  was  a  great  gap-toothed,  lusty  woman,  in  a  bodice 
kept  together  with  pins.  In  the  morning  she  had  joined  in 
the  hue  and  cry  after  Thyrza,  but  to-night  she  was  all 
womanly  towards  this  bitter  need. 

Holding  Thyrza  firmly  Mrs.  Bovey  pushed  her  way 
through  the  crowd,  that  made  a  lane  for  them  now,  a 
guard  of  honour,  indeed,  and  the  only  one  that  Thyrza 
would  ever  know.  At  length  they  reached  the  tiny  house 
in  Market  Street  where  Mrs.  Bovey  lived.  In  the  relief 
of  rest  from  the  constant  deluges  of  rain  which  she  had 
been  enduring,  Thyrza  sank  gratefully  into  an  old  beehive 
chair  by  the  hearth. 

"My  man's  to  Cardiff,"  said  Mrs.  Bovey,  as  she  watched 
the  girl's  white  set  face,  "so  you  can  bide  to-night.  There's 
naught  but  chillem  here,"  she  laughed. 

Two  brats  sprawled  in  front  of  the  fire,  playing  with  a 
mangy  kitten,  and  others  were  a-bed  in  the  close,  poverty- 
stricken  room  upstairs. 

"He  was  your  man,  wasn't  he?"  asked  Mrs.  Bovey. 

"Not  like  you  mean,"  said  Thyrza,  awaking  to  a  sense 
of  her  surroundings.  "Not  same  as  you  all  thought. 
John  had  nought  hke  other  men.  But  he's  paid  back  now, 
he's  paid  back." 

Mrs.  Bovey  thought  her  visitor's  wits  were  wandering. 
Hastily  lifting  the  sleeping  baby  from  the  packing-box 
which  was  his  cradle,  she  brought  him  to  Thyrza.  "Look," 
she  said,  "we've  woke  him  between  us." 

The  baby's  fists  were  squaring  and  his  face  puckering 
against  the  coming  yell.  At  the  noise  Thyrza  burst  into  a 
passion  of  tears. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "he  never  had  a  child,  never,  never, 
John  never  had." 


The  Gates  of  Dawn 


397 


Mrs.  Bovey  stood  gently  patting  her  guest's  shoulders, 
while  she  rocked  the  screaming  child  on  her  other  arm. 

*'He  was  a  good  man,"  said  Thyrza,  *'and  took  me  in 
when  I'd  nowhere  to  go.  And  I  gave  'en  a  bad  name, 
though  I  never  meant  to.    I  gave  'en  a  bad  name." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Bovey  gently,  **I  reckon  there's 
no  call  to  fret  over  that;  for  he's  gone  where  a  bad  name 
doesn't  matter,  for  there  we'm  known  as  we  be." 

"Known  as  we  be:"  it  was  the  word  that  comforted 
Thyrza  most,  as  she  lay  that  night  listening  to  the  sea  that 
beat  above  John  Darracott's  body.  For  him  no  storied  urn, 
no  animated  bust,  only  the  rough  and  homely  words  of  a 
shrew  and  the  worship  of  an  erring  woman's  heart. 

Yet  beyond  the  gates  of  dawn,  where  men  are  stripped  of 
ever>'thing  save  the  truth,  John  Darracott  must  stand  high 
indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
CONSTANTINE'S  BANNER 

"OTOP    your  gorging,   John,"    cried    Mrs.    Rosevear, 

O  rushing  to  the  window,  '  'for  there's  Miss  Westaway 
coming  across  the  green.  She'll  be  here  in  two  minutes, 
and  us  won't  want  you  buzzing  round,  all  ears  and  eyes." 

It  was  the  sweetest  hour  in  the  day,  that  of  the  labourer's 
late  tea,  but  John  Rosevear  knew  better  than  to  disobey. 
Accordingly  he  gulped  down  his  cup  of  tea,  and  swallowing 
a  last  mouthful  of  bacon,  betook  himself  to  the  circle  at  the 
forge,  for  there  could  be  no  bar  of  the  "Blue  Boar"  or  of 
the  "Royal  George"  for  the  likes  of  Chrissie's  husband. 

In  a  trice  she  had  cleared  away  the  dirty  cups  and 
saucers,  and  brewed  a  fresh  pot  of  tea  for  her  visitor. 

"You're  not  very  much  surprised  to  see  me,  I  think, 
Mrs.  Rosevear,"  said  Damaris. 

"No,  I  dunno  as  I  am;  but  you'll  take  a  cup  of  tea, 
miss,  and  there's  an  apple-turnover,  if  you  could  fancy 
one." 

Damaris  sat  down,  watching  Chrissie  out  of  the  comer 
of  her  eye,  as  the  woman  waited  on  her. 

"Chrissie,"  she  said  at  last,  "Thyrza  didn't  die  that 
night.  And  she  came  here  to  you.  But  you  wouldn't  tell, 
for  she  trusted  you." 

"However  did  'ee  know?"  gasped  Mrs.  Rosevear, 
standing  with  arms  akimbo. 

"I  only  guessed,  for  you  were  always  the  one  she  fled 
398 


I 


Constantine's  Banner  399 

to.  In  her  worst  trouble  before,  you  were  good  to  her.  So 
I  knew." 

"Ay,"  said  Chrissie,  "I  wouldn't  give  the  cheeld  up  to 
any  man  of  'em  all.  But  you're  a  woman  and  that's 
different.     Besides,  you're  wiser  than  me." 

It  was  the  greatest  concession  that  Chrissie  had  ever 
made. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "she  come  here,  and  like  a  fool  I 
let  her  go  the  next  morning.  She  swore  solemn  she  was 
going  to  Mrs.  Velly." 

"Where  did  she  go,  then?  " 

"To  John  Darracott,  and  with  him  she's  been  all  this 
time.  I  never  knowed  it  till  yesterday,  though.  For  then 
a  cousin  of  John's  come  over  here  and  told  us  how  she's 
been  living  with  Darracott,  and  how  she  worked  at  the 
ferry,  till  it  got  about  that  she  was  a  loose  woman," 

"Ah;  no,  no!"  exclaimed  Damans,  "she  loved  her 
husband." 

"I  didn't  say  'twas  true  what  they  thought,  did  I?" 
demanded  Chrissie  fiercely.  "But  I  reckon  she  felt  he 
didn't  want  her,  and  there  was  but  one  man  that  did. 
That's  of  it,  you  may  depend." 

"Then,"  said  Damaris,  starting  up,  "where  is  the  girl, 
now  that  Darracott  is  dead?" 

"Biding  with  a  woman  that's  took  her  in.  But  I  reckon 
she'd  be  the  better  for  a  helping  hand  now.  She's  pretty 
nigh  at  the  last  stand,  I'll  warn." 

"God  grant  I'll  not  be  too  late,"  said  Damaris,  as  she 
stood  up  to  go  back  to  the  inn.  She  could  scarcely  arouse 
Appledore  that  night,  but  she  would  be  there  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning. 

Cold  like  the  grey  light  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  the 
dawn  was  creeping  slowly  over  the  sandy  reaches  of  the 
Torridge  next  morning.     The  tide  was  out  and  the  river 


400  A  Man  of  Genius  ^ 

i 
but   a   sandy   stream   between   sand-banks,    where   three  i 

ketches  lay  aground  in  the  mud.    The  revolving  light  from  1 

the  dunes  flickered  sickly  yellow  across  the  waterway,  as  • 

Thyrza  came  to  the  door  of  the  boathouse,  her  eyes  idly  | 

following  the  powdery  spray  of  sand  that  the  wind  sifted  \ 

incessantly  over  the  surface  of  the  burrows.    She  had  slept  ; 

in  the  old  place  last  night,  and  now  she  was  leaving  it,  for 

Darracott's  sister  was  coming  over  from  Clovelly  to  take  \ 

away  the  furniture.    Thyrza  slipped  the  new  key  under  the  , 

mat  at  the  top  of  the  ladder,  for  somewhere  outside  the  : 

bar  the  old  key  was  shifting  in  Darracott's  pocket. 

With  her  pack  strapped  across  her  shoulders  she  walked  ! 
away.  There  was  no  fear  of  insult  now,  but  she  was  leaving  J 
early  merely  to  avoid  the  kindly  anxiety  that  would  have  \ 
bidden  her  stay.  For  rough  and  cruel  as  they  are  in  certain  I 
aspects,  waifs  are  often  unselfishly  tendered  by  the  fisherfolk  j 
and  Thyrza  remembered  just  now  the  little  offerings  of  fish  ,; 
that  had  been  left  at  Mrs.  Bovey's  door  for  her.  j 

From  the  road  that  looks  down  the  whole  length  of  the  j 

burrows,  she  leant  over  a  field  gate  to  take  a  last  look  at  | 

the  boathouse.  Now,  from  where  she  stood,  the  fat  rooks  " 

i 
that  rose  from  the  newly  ploughed  land  loomed  larger  in  j 

her  eyes  than  the  black  speck  that  represented  Darracott's  j 

boathouse.     So  time  blots  out  the  past  and  the  lives  that  j 

are  part  of  it.  1 

Turning  slowly  away,  Thyrza  resumed  her  walk  towards  \ 
Northam.  From  thence  she  meant  to  make  for  Bideford,  ^ 
to  try  for  work  at  the  factory.  For  as  Darracott  had  i 
faced  the  slow  ache  of  the  long  days,  so  could  Thyrza  now. 

To  avoid  the  dust  of  a  carriage  that  was  approaching,  ■:\ 
she  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  stone  that  marks  Bloody  j 
Comer,  where  Hubba  the  Dane  was  defeated  by  the  Saxons.  1 
The  driver,  as  the  carriage  passed,  pointed  it  out  to  the| 
solitary    occupant    of    the   wagonette.      It   was    Damaris* 


Constantine's  Banner  401 

Westaway,  and  in  a  moment,  before  Thyrza  could  collect 
her  wits,  she  was  being  driven  on  to  Northam  by  the  side 
of  the  mistress  of  Tonacombe. 

Thyrza  was  white  with  anger,  as  Damans  drew  her  away 
from  the  inn  door,  where  the  carriage  put  them  down,  into 
the  churchyard  and  round  to  the  famous  comer  where  she 
had  been  found  by  Ambrose  in  those  old  days  that  now 
seemed  centuries  ago. 

"Why  did  you  bring  me  here?"  she  cried. 

"Sit  down  there,"  said  Damaris,  pointing  to  a  seat,  "for 
we  must  fight  this  thing  out,  you  and  I." 

"I  heard  everything,"  panted  Thyrza. 

"I  know  it." 

"And  you  that  have  taken  him,  you  come  back  to  me 
like  this." 

"If  you  heard  all,  you  know  that  I  have  not  taken  him. 
He  is  yours,  now  and  always.  I  know  why  you  ran  away. 
'Twas  because  you  wouldn't  be  outdone  in  nobility  by  me." 

"You  say  that?"  whispered  Thyrza. 

"Yes,  I  say  it.  For  I  know  you,  even  better  than  you 
know  yourself,  and  far  better  than  he  knows  you." 

"Have  you  heard  what  they  say  about  me  down  there?" 

"Yes,  Chrissie  Rosevear  told  me." 

"She,  too.  My  Heavens!  Has  all  the  world  naught  to 
do  but  to  blacken  me?" 

"But  I  know  there  was  nothing  but  honour  between 
you  and  Darracott." 

"Oh,"  said  Thyrza,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  "and 
that's  true.  For  there  never  was  a  better  man  on  God's 
earth.  That's  why  he's  out  yonder  now,  I  suppose,"  she 
added  bitterly. 

"To  the  noblest,  Thyrza,  hfe's  often  a  burden,"  said 
Damaris  quietly. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  long  while,  till,  taking  her 
26 


402  A  Man  of  Genius 

courage  in  her  hands,  Damaris  said:  "I  want  to  tell  you 
about  these  last  weeks.  When  you  left,  your  husband's  one 
thought  was  for  you,  his  one  effort  to  find  you.  He  left 
no  stone  unturned.  Did  you  never  see  the  notices  in  the 
papers  ?  " 

"We  never  saw  a  paper,  not  unless  it  wrapped  up  a 
parcel." 

''If  you  had,  perhaps  you  might  feel  differently,  for  he 
wants  you.  Deep  down,  'tis  you  that  are  dearest  to  him, 
not  I.  And  if  you've  something  to  forgive,  that  is  always 
a  woman's  lot." 

"Oh,  where  is  he  now?" 

"Superintending  the  building  of  the  Oratory,  but  he  did 
not  want  to  go.  It  was  I  who  persuaded  him  to  leave  the 
task  of  finding  you  to  me.  But  I  thought  it  would  be 
a  long  search,  and  indeed  it  would  have  been,  but  for 
Darracott's  death  and  the  consequent  talk." 

"Then  he's  not  been  with  you?" 

"I've  never  seen  him  since  the  night  you  left  the  manor- 
house.    Thyrza,  how  will  you  be  able  to  live  without  him  ?  " 

The  words  of  Mrs.  Leggo  at  Galsworthy  came  back  to 
the  girl,  "he's  arms  full  against  arms  empty":  and  to 
Thyrza  empty  arms  made  the  ultimate  tragedy  of  Hfe. 

"So,"  said  Damaris,  "there's  nothing  hidden  from  you 
anywhere.  Your  baby  boy  is  waiting  for  you,  as  well  as 
Ambrose.  And,  perhaps,  the  flutter  of  life  once  more  at 
your  heart,  Thyrza,"  she  whispered.  "Can  you  forego  the 
very  thing  that  life  means  to  you?" 

Thyrza's  face  was  working  terribly. 

"He's  just  all  the  world  to  you,"  continued  Damaris, 
"and  he  wants  you.  If  you  had  seen  him,  as  I  did,  when 
he  found  you  were  gone,  you  would  know  it." 

When  Thyrza  shpped  a  hand  along  the  bench  Damaris 
knew  she  had  won. 


Constantine's  Banner 


403 


Late  that  night  they  stood  watching  the  street  from  a 
window  of  the  New  Inn,  at  Bideford.  Then,  as  they 
caught  sight  of  the  hotel  omniljus  approaching,  Damans 
got  up.  Thyrza  caught  her  hand,  white-lipped  and  trem- 
bhng,  but  Damans  said  quietly,  "Yes,  he'll  be  in  that,  1 
expect." 

Out  in  the  semi-darkness  of  the  passage  she  stood  for  a 
moment  to  watch  the  top  of  the  stairs  which  led  to  their 
sitting-room.  Against  the  brightness  of  the  room  within 
she  saw  Ambrose  pause  for  a  moment,  as  the  waiter  stood 
back.  Then  the  door  was  shut  quickly,  but  not  till  the 
watcher  heard  a  half-stifled  cry  from  Thyrza. 

So  at  last  the  child  had  found  rest  on  the  heart  that 
loved  her  truly  enough,  though  with  divided  affection,  for 
such  is  a  man's  way. 

Before  they  came  out  to  look  for  her,  Damaris  was 
driving  back  to  Hartland.  As  shi|  let  down  the  window  in 
the  darkness  of  the  night  that  seemed  to  rush  past  her, 
there  flamed  in  front  a  moon  crescent  that  seemed,  in  her 
elation,  like  the  cross  that  pulsed  in  the  sky  before  the 
heathen  Emperor.  For,  like  Constantine,  by  this  sign,  she, 
too,  had  conquered.  Then  the  high  moment  passed  and  a 
few  bitter  tears  smarted  in  her  eyes.  Yet,  over  at  Tona- 
combe  there  were  children  waiting  for  her  help,  and  at  Hart- 
land  there  was  an  old  man  fuming  at  the  lateness  of  her 
arrival.  Also,  in  time  to  come,  there  would  be  much 
fine  work,  the  tnier  for  this  baptism  of  pain. 

So  Damaris,  too,  faced  the  future,  and  with  glance  as 
gallant  as  the  eyes  with  which  John  Darracott  had  gone  out 
over  the  bar. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
THE  CLEAR  SHINING  OF  A  STAR 

THE  door  of  the  empty  Oratory  swung  noiselessly 
behind  her  as  Damaris  walked  up  the  aisle  and  sank 
into  a  seat.  It  was  her  first  sight  of  the  building  that  had, 
long  ago,  made  Ambrose  Velly's  fame,  and  as  she  gazed 
about  her,  she  smiled  at  the  remark  of  a  stranger  whom  she 
had  passed  in  the  porch. 

"What  I  like  in  his  work  is  that  there's  nothing  cheap 
about  it,"  he  had  said. 

Assuredly  there  was  nothing  cheap  about  this  building, 
for  its  foundations  had  been  laid  in  the  effort  of  many  lives 
besides  that  of  the  thinker  whose  brain  had  first  conceived  it. 

All  around,  close  to  the  very  walls,  were  squahd  houses 
festering  with  human  misery,  yet  here  the  fluted  pillars, 
rising  to  the  groined  roof,  held  up,  like  the  cup  that  is 
formed  by  upHfted  hands,  a  chalice  of  beauty  that  waited 
for  the  dew  and  the  rain  and  the  sun  from  overhead.  The 
high  spaces  of  the  roof  were  shadowy  now,  as  the  sunlight 
faded,  but  in  the  carving  of  the  screen  she  could  detect 
the  hand  of  Ambrose  himself.  Born  of  the  earth,  vivid 
and  living,  were  the  beasts  and  plants  that  started  from  its 
outlines.  The  dusk  fell  slowly,  like  incense  from  an  unseen 
censer,  while  in  the  light  from  the  windows  the  tracery  of 
their  arches  gleamed  in  black  lines.  There  was  no  colour 
anywhere,  no  splendour  of  purple  and  gold:  only  the 
whiteness  of  the  hand  held  up. 

404 


The   Clear  Shining  of  a  Star        405 

For  what?  Tnic,  the  thing  was  restful,  the  moments 
when  it  spoke,  an  upHft.  Yet  Thyrza  had  knocked  often  on 
the  closed  walls  of  a  heart;  Darracott  had  lost  his  homely 
bliss;  she  herself,  with  hosts  of  friends,  had  missed  the 
woman's  prize.  And  in  Ambrose  much  had  died:  some 
baseness,  much  selfishness,  and  a  little  joy.  She  never  saw 
him  now,  but  she  knew  ver)'  well  that  ''The  Wind  among 
the  Barley"  was  just  an  echo  now  to  him,  an  echo  from 
the  earlier  world  of  his  youth. 

And  round  the  uplifted  hand  still  foamed  the  sea  of 
miser}'.  The  work  of  many,  beside  her  father  and  herself, 
had  been,  and  would  be,  spent,  yet  still  the  sea  was  undried. 
And,  though  it  rose  from  their  midst,  the  hand  said  nothing 
to  those  who  needed  its  message  most. 

Still  the  darkness  fell  as  she  sat  on,  until  the  tide  that 
beats  on  the  cliffs  of  Hartland  seemed  to  echo  in  her  ears, 
even  in  this  midland  city  of  labour.  At  last,  through  the 
window  over  the  altar,  there  shone  the  radiance  of  a  solitary 
star.  Between  the  fingers  of  the  uplifted  hand  there  had 
pierced  one  ray  from  the  unseen  depths  of  space. 

The  laughter  of  joy  that  fades,  the  victories  that  leave 
scars,  the  sorrows  that  often  harden,  passion  building  the 
walls  of  life,  and  lust  the  foundation  of  its  structure:  such 
is  the  human  lot  to-day. 

But  out  of  the  unseen  peers  the  star,  and  even  from  the 
heights  of  this  life  there  are  hands  uplifted  to  its  clear 
shining,  hearts  that  answer  to  its  hope. 


^/4c^ 


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